If It Were Otherwise
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, criminal genius and greatest business rival to Jim Moriarty, is in need of a doctor with loose morals and a quick trigger finger. Lucky, then, that he has a debtor whose brother is a retired army doctor, recently returned from Afghanistan. AU; John/Sherlock; OCs
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Okay, listen up. This is an **AU **in which Sherlock is operating on the other side of the law, so it isn't part of my normal Sherlock-universe although has some connections (in the form of OC's, because I like my OC's). I've been encouraged to publish this by a couple of readers (**mustangwoman** and **silverwolf04**) who did me the wonderful service of beta reading it, for which I thank them! You are both lovely! If you don't want to read an AU, you don't have to. If you don't like it, that is totally fine with me, but I don't want to know about it. If you do like it, feel free to review it, I promise I won't mind ;)

A few things: 1) Don't tell me Sherlock is OOC; it's an AU, so this is actually deliberate on my part. 2) Gabriel = Sam (it's Sam's real name). You can safely assume everything that happens up to the point where he meets Sherlock happened in regular-universe Sam's life, too. 3) There will be John! Eventually! You just have to wait for it, a bit. 4) Please enjoy!

I do not own, nor do I profit from. And now I'm going to stick my head in the sand and pretend this isn't happening because I'm nervous as hell.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had first met Gabriel Mitchell when the younger man had been all of seventeen.<p>

It was the eyes, he considered, that first caught his wandering attention. The eyes, because they were so green, so strikingly green, the kind of shade that defied reality, was only seen in those blasted and tedious magazines where everything was edited, or in films, or described in books. The colour of grass, really. He'd never seen anything like it, nor ever would again, because even Gabriel's siblings and parents did not have that elusive shade of green in their eyes.

But it was not that which kept his attention focused.

There was someone else watching him, a dark-haired Frenchwoman, all sleek curves and supple muscle and elegance and detachment, smoking a cigarette in deliberate defiance of all of the signs around her – standing under a sign banning smoking, actually – that made him pay attention. She was stunning, so that even Sherlock had to stop and admire the view, which he had never done before with a woman. They were so utterly foreign and made no sense, but were also so easily played, so open to being read, approached, flattered, sought after.

Not this one, though, he thought. She was after something else. Something about the boy. Young man. Because despite his obvious young age, he was not a boy.

He was not paying attention to either of them.

He was watching everyone else, eyes – those green eyes – flitting over everyone, bored, bored, bored.

_What seventeen-year-old takes himself to the symphony for his birthday?_

Sherlock had no doubts that the young man was seventeen, precisely, this day. Even though there was nothing, nothing whatsoever, he could use to peg that deduction. This bothered him, because deduction was what he _did_, it was his life's blood, his livelihood, his passion, the ultimate combination of all of his skills.

Still, it would please him to find out he was right.

He despised intermission.

Normally.

Because it was filled with the press of bodies, of women trying to outdo one another with their tedious or garish dresses, of men trying to outdo one another with their posturing, their braying, with new money – such pedants – trying to mingle properly with old money. And the Bohemian university students who thought it was brilliant and daring and risqué to come to a symphony, and pretended to understand the music and care, while all the while trying to defy what they described as stuffy British stereotypes.

And this seventeen-year-old young man and the mysterious Frenchwoman.

Were they sleeping together?

But surely not, because why not flaunt it? He was old enough that the obviously older Frenchwoman would find no trouble from the law if this were the case. Besides, she was _French._

_Ah_, Sherlock thought. _She _is _the law._

And this made him weave through the crowd because if the law was after the younger man, for whatever reason, it made things so much more interesting. Seventeen was not entirely too young to be on the wrong side of the law, but even Sherlock baulked at recruiting so young, if he could avoid it, which was not always possible.

Not children, though, no. Never children.

Education was too important.

Besides, getting caught under child labour laws carried far too many penalties and it was too easy to be pegged with abuse, which could result in a messy and painfully slow death.

But young men and women on the cusp of adulthood? When necessary.

"Do you have the time?" he asked, oh-so-coincidentally stopping near the young man, whose green eyes had tracked his movement across the room, much to Sherlock's approval. And the Frenchwoman had noted it as well. Good thing he never wore a watch, which would show if he moved the wrong way, despite the tailcoat and the long-sleeved tuxedo shirt.

"Ten past eight," the young man replied with a quick glance at the cheap watch on his left wrist.

He'd have to take care of that, Sherlock considered. Something good, silver to go with his complexion, which was darker than Sherlock's own, although this wasn't difficult.

"Thank you," he said, sipping his champagne. "_Parlez-vous français?" _(Do you speak French?)

The young man looked startled for a moment, but, to his credit, didn't nod instinctively in response.

"_Oui. Pourquoi?" _(Yes. Why?)

"Did you know there's a Frenchwoman following you?"

"Her? She's French?"

Sherlock almost grinned. So he'd spotted his tail but not worked out where she was from. Well, he was young. It was not surprising. Perhaps at that age, Sherlock might have missed the fact that she was French. Even if she was smoking like a chimney. Even if she was glaring at everyone around her with cool disdain – that could be mistaken for the British upper class, as well, of course.

"Yes, she's French."

"Hmm," the young man commented. "She's been following me for three weeks."

"And why would she do this?"

"No idea," the young man admitted. He paused, considering Sherlock. "You need to buy me a champagne, so she thinks you want to shag me and it gives us a reason to talk."

"Are we going to talk?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows, making sure to put a somewhat suggestive look in his features, for the benefit of their French voyeur.

"You're the one who approached me," the young man pointed out.

"Only asking about the time."

"And pointing out that there's a Frenchwoman following me."

"Very true. Come with me."

He stepped away, confident of being followed, and was not at all disappointed when they reached the bar. The young man hung back far enough it looked as though they were not really together, but only moving in the crowd in the same direction. Sherlock paid for two more champagnes and drifted back toward the young man, passing the glass off when they were close enough that it would not seem untoward or strange.

"Do you have a name?" the young man asked.

"Of course," Sherlock replied.

"Ha. Going to share it, Mister Mysterious?"

"Not yet. You first."

"Gabriel Mitchell," the young man replied and it wasn't a lie, because he wanted to know who Sherlock was.

"_Gabriel_," Sherlock said, pronouncing it in French.

The young man scowled.

"I'm not a bloody Frenchman," he snapped. "It's Gabriel."

"Mitch to your friends?"

"No. Gabe. Mitch is my older brother's nickname."

"Ah," Sherlock agreed. Some of the boredom and irritation he'd noted made sense now. The youngest child, with at least the older brother, possibly an older sister. But much more intelligent than either of these, chaffing under lack of acknowledgement, the sibling rivalry, the constant competition.

Well.

He understood _that_, didn't he?

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, nodding over a sip of champagne.

To his surprise, Gabriel laughed.

"Oh yes, bloody right," he said. "Nice try. You'll need to do better than that. What's next, John Doe?"

Sherlock stared at him, because in all the years he'd been working, dealing with people, moving between worlds, facilitating transactions, he'd never once had anyone tell him he was lying about his name. Oh yes, they'd think so, and it would show on their faces, but no one, _no one_, had ever had the courage to outright say it, and take it for a joke.

"Entirely serious," he replied. "Mother named Sibyl, brother named Mycroft. The old Victorian names hold an appeal in my family."

Gabriel stared at him, green eyes dark with suspicion. Sherlock let his features be open and honest, because he was actually being open and honest, for once, and the younger man's disbelief cleared slowly.

"That's the weirdest bloody name ever, mate."

"No, Mycroft is infinitely worse," Sherlock assured him.

Gabriel laughed, grinning a bright and sudden grin and Sherlock reminded himself that he was a good seven years older than the younger man, which was not entirely relevant, and he was fairly certain Gabriel had more than a passing interest in men, although equally certain the young man could find himself on either side of the proverbial fence.

But it wasn't why he was there. Casual encounters could be arranged whenever he wanted, but this was real talent. He could see the spark of it in the green eyes. Gabriel had taken himself, on his birthday, to the symphony, and had noted the Frenchwoman following him.

He spoke French, too.

And he'd told Sherlock straight out that he was lying. Even though this was wrong, it was impressive.

There would be more, he was certain.

"How would you like to make some money?" he enquired.

Gabriel gave him an evaluating look.

"Is that some sort of trick question?" he enquired.

"Not a trick," Sherlock assured him.

"Then what? I'm not sleeping with you for money."

This intrigued Sherlock and he pursued it, even though he meant not to.

"Would you do so for free?"

Gabriel gave him a startled look and Sherlock laughed – it was entertaining to see those green eyes flare, and quite nice to turn the tables on an adolescent who had, moments ago, managed to shock him. It was also, he noted, distracting the Frenchwoman from thinking they were discussing anything other than sex.

Which, point of fact, they were. Just not entirely in the way she was thinking, and not for long.

"You're a bit old for me," Gabriel managed to retort.

"For the time being," Sherlock agreed, lifting his champagne flute in a mock toast. "However, I was entirely serious in my offer regarding the possibility of you making money."

"Oh yes?" Gabriel replied, raising his eyebrows. "And what do you want me to do for this money, Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

"Meet me back right here after the performance," he replied.

"And then what?" Gabriel demanded.

"And then, if you show up, I shall tell you, Mister Mitchell."


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm here," Gabriel said.

"Yes, I can see that quite clearly," Sherlock replied, sipping another glass of champagne he'd obtained for himself. Gabriel's French tail was back, smoking another cigarette, languidly, Sherlock noted, as though this bored her. He wished he had her lack of compunctions and wondered why he did not, because he quite wanted one himself, at the moment.

"What's this job, then?"

"You will leave without me, walk east on Silk Street and hail a cab at the intersection of Silk and Milton. Do not get inside unless the cab number is six-five-three. You will tell the driver that your friend from the country has asked you to visit. He will drive you to Gray's Inn Gardens and you will get out on the square. There will be another car waiting for you there, a black Mercedes with tinted windows. You will get in the rear driver's side door. Do you understand?"

"No, not really," Gabriel said.

"Well done. Repeat that all back to me."

Gabriel hesitated a moment and Sherlock hoped it wasn't out of an inability to remember, but no, that was a true hesitation, because he was uncertain.

Good.

He should be uncertain. He was seventeen and being asked to trust a stranger with unspecified plans for him and to travel on his own. He had no idea who Sherlock was nor any reason to suspect Sherlock would not hurt him, kill him, dump his body in the river to be dragged up by the bobbies two days later. Perhaps people would gather at his funeral and shake their heads sadly and murmur about how he'd only just turned seventeen. Or perhaps they'd never find him, and his family would wonder what had happened, always hoping at the back of their minds that he'd run off and would return one day, walking through the door as though nothing had happened, greeting them cheerfully, full of tales of exotic travels and wild adventures.

Of course, none of these things were going to happen, because murder was messy when not properly planned, people had spotted them together – in this large a crowd, it wasn't just the Frenchwoman who would notice Sherlock or Gabriel or both of them – and he had neither the need nor the desire to end a young man's life simply for taking himself to the symphony for his birthday.

"What happens if I refuse?" Gabriel asked.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied. "You go home, you will never see me again. And you will not get paid."

The young man pursed his lips into a thin line, considering this last bit of information.

"How much?" he asked.

"Depends on how you do."

"At what?"

"Not here," Sherlock said. "Right now, you go. Either follow my directions or take your own, your choice. But first, you need to repeat that back to me. Then you will look at me, and say 'no, thanks' before leaving."

He took another sip of his champagne and raised his eyebrows. Gabriel repeated the instructions word for word, getting all of the details right, with pauses that were short enough to satisfy Sherlock that he'd been listening properly.

"Good," Sherlock said, then changed his expression somewhat, adding a hint of suggestion. "Coming with me?"

To his credit, very much to his credit, Gabriel barely missed a beat, and it could easily be interpreted by an observer – for instance, a smoking Frenchwoman – as surprise. Then he narrowed his eyes only slightly, but shook his head.

"No, thanks."

He nodded once at Sherlock then turned away, moving purposefully through the crowds of symphony goers who were drifting toward the exit, often pausing to speak in groups, to avail themselves of something from the small bars set up about the lobby. Here and there, laughter rung out across the room, bright, as if catching the high lights and glittering off of them. The murmur of voices made it difficult to distinguish specific conversations, but he did hear the changes in tone and tenor that indicated another language being spoken: French, Italian, some German, Arabic, too, he thought.

He put a disappointed expression on his face, a man who had been turned down by another, who had quite expected the young man for whom he'd purchased champagne at intermission to be _interested_ in something more.

_No matter_, he thought deliberately, so it showed in his eyes. Sherlock ignored the Frenchwoman, pretending not to notice her or see her, and stood near a white and graceful pillar, finishing his champagne.

* * *

><p>If anything, Gabriel seemed relieved to see Sherlock sitting in the back of the car in Gray's Inn Gardens, although he was also reliably puzzled by the slice of cake with a single candle burning it in that was extended to him when he slipped into the spacious back and settled down.<p>

"You brought me here to eat cake?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said. "However, I believe it's traditional on one's birthday, is it not?"

"How did you know it's my birthday?" Gabriel demanded, visibly startled.

"For starters, you just told me by your reaction. And I checked up on you while you were on your way here."

"Yes, you didn't bloody warn me that the cabbie 'will drive you to Gray's Inn Gardens and you will get out on the square' meant he would drive me across half of London first! We drove across the Waterloo Bridge four times!"

"Hmm, that is tedious, but Gerald does like the views of the river. Would you have not come had I told you the trip would take slightly longer than normal?"

Gabriel hesitated.

"Well, no," he admitted.

"Precisely. Enjoy your cake. You only turn seventeen once, after all."

Gabriel shot him a disbelieving look, but Sherlock gestured to it and nodded.

"Entirely serious," he said.

The young man raised his eyebrows but blew the candle out and put it aside, then tucked in, apparently enjoying himself.

"So, what do I do?" he asked when he'd polished off the cake. Sherlock had a vague craving for a cigarette, but never smoked in any of his cars, because the smell clung to the upholstery and it was tediously expensive to have real leather properly cleaned on a regular basis.

"I want you to find out who the Frenchwoman is."

"Well, that should be simple enough," Gabriel said. "She's been following me for three weeks now. I could just go up to her and introduce myself."

"Exactly right, and exactly what you will do," Sherlock replied.

"Um, then why all of this?" he asked, gesturing to the car. "Why not just ask me to do that at the Barbican? Or ask her yourself?"

"I'm in no hurry to have her connect me with you, or connect me with anyone," Sherlock said smoothly. "She is following you, not me. As far as she knows, our only interaction was my suggestive advances to you and your outright rejection of me. There is nothing else linking us."

"Well, she's right about that," Gabriel replied, green eyes bright in the light from the lamps about the square.

"Not entirely," Sherlock corrected. "She doesn't know you're working for me."

"Am I working for you?"

"You will be, once I've paid you."

"Why not just talk to her yourself? What are you, some kind of undercover cop?"

"No," Sherlock said smoothly. "I believe she is."

At this, Gabriel started visible, reaching for the door instinctively before pulling back, eyes still on Sherlock, now looking for a gun. But just at the hip, not at either ankle, so there were some things he'd need to learn.

If he passed this test.

Which Sherlock was certain he would. He hadn't been doing this sort of work for years without developing some incredibly honed instincts.

"And that makes you what?" Gabriel demanded.

"I am a businessman," Sherlock replied easily.

"Who hires seventeen-year-olds to find out about French police officers?"

"To be fair, you'd be the first who fits that description precisely," Sherlock said. "I'm interested in knowing why she's interested in you."

"Why?"

Sherlock leant forward somewhat.

"Shall I tell you about yourself, Gabriel Mitchell? You have an older brother, Richard, and an older sister, Marian, making you the youngest of three. You were born and raised in London. Your father, also named Richard, worked nights in a chemicals plant the entire time you were growing up and your mother, Margaret, is a school teacher which, I think, is the sole explanation for how your intelligence was recognized in your family because neither of your siblings show the same degree of aptitude as you, although you get disproportionately low scores in your classes but always score very highly on your exams, so you end up doing well regardless. But you should be doing better, Gabriel, and you _know_ this, as evidenced by the fact that you are, having just turned seventeen, graduating from high school this December, which you've accomplished in part by taking summer classes. You funded these through a series of part-time jobs in the evenings and on the weekends and supplemented the rest of the cost with money you stole during several break-and-enters of area convenience stores in the past eighteen months at least, if not more."

"I did not!" Gabriel said hotly.

"Yes, you did. Don't fret, the police don't know, and I'm not about to tell them. I was quite impressed, actually; it took me almost five minutes to piece all of it together. The spring before last, you worked at a Londis quite near your place, on the weekends. Typical job for a teenager, although you weren't, of course, allowed to work the till until you turned sixteen. Not that your manager particularly cared about this, of course, so you did so regardless.

"Later that spring, several _other_ Londis stores were robbed over the course of a four-week period. I must congratulate you, because you did do an admirable job making it look random, especially for someone your age. Shall I continue?"

Gabriel was watching him in shock and not a little apprehension, having slumped down in the seat somewhat, as if this would hide him somehow.

"Last summer, your family took a trip to Paris, your first time out of the country excluding a school trip to Glasgow when you were twelve, some last-ditch effort by your parents, I imagine, to salvage a long-crumbling marriage. A stab at family togetherness, perhaps? Although I note your brother Richard didn't go, work, of course, probably takes precedence for him over a trip with his cumbersome parents and his tedious younger siblings.

"During the ten-day period in which you were there, no fewer than _three_ Chez Jean convenience stores were robbed, suggesting to me that you had planned this in advance, so you're progressing from where you were a year and a half ago. Would you like me to tell you how you accomplished all of these burglaries?"

Gabriel kept staring him, green eyes wide, looking pinned, but gave a single, slow nod.

"First, you chose stores that were directly on tube lines here, or Metro lines in Paris, from your flat here, or your motel there. Within a two block radius of whatever line you chose, so convenient for you, easily accessible, but not within the same direction and not always on the same line. Do you know, most criminals have what the police term a 'comfort zone', an area with which they're familiar in which they operate? No? It's true. Usually it's close to home, or work, but you, Gabriel, have deliberately sought out places that cannot be readily traced back to you, at least not by the rather limited intelligence displayed by the bobbies or the _gens d'arme_.

"Second, you chose stores that were not twenty-four hour shops, so they would be closed for a portion of the day. You had no desire for a direct confrontation, because that is messy and could easily result in someone being injured or you being apprehended. And it wasn't about the money, not entirely, although you did take whatever you could and, I note, you stole a fair amount of cigarettes, but you don't smoke, so I assume you sold these? Yes? Brilliant, well done. Not the largest source of revenue, but decent nonetheless.

"Third, you did not enter from the front, nor by breaking any windows, et cetera. This means you came in the back, where it was more likely to be dark, via the emergency and staff exit. You wore dark clothing to conceal yourself, of course, because they would have cameras in the back, at least some of them, and you were caught on tape once or twice, but always head down, nothing identifiable about you. You picked the locks on the doors – the doors weren't forced, although the locks were somewhat damaged, more so early on than in the later ones – and you simply threw the breaker switches to shut off the lights and the alarms systems. This would, of course, trigger the alarms with the security companies, but you were always in and out before anyone could arrive."

He paused, smiling, knowing he was right, but asking anyway.

"Correct?"

Gabriel had bundled his hands into the pockets of his coat and slouched down.

"Come now, you should be quite proud of yourself. For someone your age, that's quite skilled. For anyone, really."

"And now you want me to go meet an undercover cop?" he muttered. "I don't think so."

"If she knows about this – which may be the case – she isn't following you to get you in trouble. If they wanted to arrest you, they simply would. You're young, from a middle-class background, you have no real knowledge of how police procedure works, so you'd be easy to intimidate, nor can your family afford expensive counsel to bully the police. No, if she knows, she's likely interested in recruiting you."

At this, Gabriel sat up quickly.

"What? Why?"

"Can you not imagine that these sorts of skills may be valuable to the police as well as to criminals?"

He stared, then shook his head once – no, he had not considered this. Not surprising, really.

"And what about you?" he snapped and Sherlock nodded, pleased. "What do my 'skills' have to do with your business? Surely a businessman doesn't go about robbing shops for money for classes?"

"No," Sherlock said smoothly. "But your limitation at the moment is that your thinking is too small, too narrow."

"What do you mean?"

"You're robbing convenience stores for whatever small amounts of money they have on hand and whatever else you can get by selling stolen cigarettes. By my count, you've done this six times so far without getting caught." He leant forward, lacing his fingers together, wrists resting on his knees.

"Imagine, Gabriel, what you might do with an entire bank."


	3. Chapter 3

The day after Gabriel sat the last of his high school examinations, Sherlock hired him full-time, with a legitimate contract that offered a salary, not too generous, but his actual pay would be much higher, health benefits, assured vacation time, and some additional fringes such as bonuses and whatnot. He even went round to Gabriel's tiny house to meet and speak with his mother, his father having given up any pretences and having moved out at the beginning of December.

On paper, Gabriel was working for Sherlock Holmes as a French translator and sometimes interpreter, because – to Gabriel's mother – Sherlock dealt in international real estate but his French, particularly his written French, was poor and Gabriel showed promise. Where had he met Gabriel? Well, a chance meeting at the symphony on the young man's seventeenth birthday. Sometimes, the truth was the best pavement to cover a lie.

Gabriel had done a magnificent job with the Interpol woman, which is what she turned out to be, and had turned her down, convincingly uninterested. Well, it was mostly true. Sherlock was certain Gabriel would have been interested had the French Interpol agent gotten to him first, but she hadn't.

It was fun, having a protégé. He'd never had one before. Certainly he had any number of people who worked for him, the ones closest to him highly intelligent, but he'd never had to mould any of them quite like this.

Because none of them had ever shown quite this much promise. Close, but not quite.

Or this much brazen cheek.

After having left his mother's house with Sherlock on his first official day of work, Gabriel declared he had one condition to his employment that was not in his contract.

"And what is that?" Sherlock asked in the back of the car, the driver separated from them and their conversation by darkened glass.

Gabriel leant forward, completely invading Sherlock's personal space without any regard for the fact that he was doing so, and pulled a package of cigarettes from Sherlock's coat pocket. He sat back with the packet in hand, opened it, took out the remaining cigarettes and broke each of them in half, Sherlock watching in shocked dismay.

"You quit," he said. "Disgusting habit. Do you _know_ what your lungs must look like?"

"Do you?" Sherlock asked by way of reply.

"We had to watch a video in biology class," Gabriel answered. "Plus, it smells terrible."

Part of Sherlock's brain translated this to _it makes you smell terrible_, which was admittedly true, but he still enjoyed it. And he always smoked in the fresh air, if he wasn't at home, although this was becoming more and more difficult in London and would continue to do so, as more and more of the new EU smoking bans were enforced.

Gabriel watched him with the decimated package of cigarettes in his hand, holding his gaze with absolutely no uncertainty.

_Fascinating_, Sherlock thought. No one else would have even _dared_ to do any of that. Let alone sit and watch him calmly, pointedly, awaiting a reply.

He twitched his eyebrows upward.

Then he extended his gloved right hand. Gabriel blinked, then transferred the package of cigarettes to his left hand and shook on the deal. Then he opened the window and tossed the package out.

Sherlock frowned.

"That was unnecessary," he said. Littering was lazy and unbecoming.

But Gabriel gave him a grin that told Sherlock that younger man was not lazy, but making a point.

_Too smart by half_, Sherlock thought. _And if Interpol had gotten to him? Or Jim?_

The last thought made him distinctly uncomfortable. He and Jim vied for each other's employees on a fairly regular basis, although it never really amounted to anything. If any of Sherlock's people wanted to leave, they were welcome to do so, with a generous enough severance package to ensure their silence for the remainder of their lives. If they chose to go to work for Jim, those life spans might be significantly reduced, and not because of Sherlock.

Jim was unpredictable.

Not in the way Sherlock could be, but in a very psychopathic way. Even Sherlock tread carefully around Jim, although he never let him know it, because he didn't entirely want to have to shoot the other man point-blank, but strongly suspected it may come to that one day.

Gabriel, though, Jim could not have. Gabriel was not a psychopath, not by a long ways, but in a psychopath's hands, he'd be a very dangerous tool.

Jim had once suggested to Sherlock they'd make an excellent team.

Sherlock had privately begged to differ.

_No one_ would make a good team with Jim Moriarty. Unless they considered part of being a good team the very real possibility of being shot just for fun.

As it turned out, Sherlock and Gabriel did, in fact, make a good team. Under the pretence of being his translator, Gabriel did very little translation work – Sherlock's French was actually better than the younger man's, and he made sure Gabriel improved in leaps and bounds so that he could pass as French, at least in England, if needed. Instead, he learned how to move in any crowd, how to change his English accent to suit any situation, how to make smooth and practiced small talk, how to dress, how to move, how to shake hands with confidence.

How a bank could be so much more easily robbed with the right demeanour and forged documents and assured nod than with any tools and unnecessary black clothing and ski mask in the middle of the night.

He took to all of it.

And people _liked_ him.

This intrigued Sherlock. He was used to getting respect, combined with a little unease or intimidation, because of his obviously high status background, his height, and his looks. He cultivated these responses, used them against people, heightened them when necessary, and it always got him what he wanted.

But Gabriel's middle class background made him more approachable. His smile was more ready, more genuine, but he had the most amazing ability to shut off all facial expression altogether, to seem distracted or bored. Sherlock found himself nearly envious of this ability; his own expressions were so mobile, so many, that this absolute _nothing_ had always been difficult for him. He'd made it work, because it was astonishing what just a hint of impatience or disapproval could accomplish, but Gabriel's skills were equally as valuable. In a crowd of people, listening to a conversation, no one noticed the young man who was clearly daydreaming, not paying anyone any attention whatsoever.

Picking up every word they said.

Sherlock trained Gabriel's memory ruthlessly, sometimes past the point of frustration for the younger man, who was used to being smarter than those around him. He'd never really come up against any true challenges to his intellect before, and initially chaffed under them when they proved too difficult, or took too long by his standards. But eventually, he began to deal with this, to meet Sherlock's goals and push past them, then meet them again when Sherlock made them even more difficult.

He backed himself off only once or twice, able to spot when Gabriel was getting too frustrated to continue even before the younger man was himself aware of it. Gabriel's limits were broader than he realized, but he had to meet what he considered his boundaries and push past those first. And, despite it all, he was still an adolescent, a very young man, and impatience was not unexpected.

Sherlock met it with patience on his end, because he was in his mid-twenties and had learned a great deal in the seven years since he had been Gabriel's age, and kept all of this at the fore of his mind when dealing with his protégé. There were things Gabriel could not do, not yet, things for which he was not yet mature enough, but those would all come, with time.

Sherlock kept a sharp eye on Gabriel as the younger man's mind developed, strengthened, honed itself with speed that would have been surprising to anyone but Sherlock. There were potential traps there, ways _out_ that seemed so seductive when people were too stupid, too much was too easy but the rest, the things that were too hard, seemed unattainable, impossible.

When the mind became too busy and needed clarity _now_, needed to work faster, needed to focus sharply, with no distractions.

Sherlock had gone down that road.

Once.

It had been astonishing, glorious, utterly perfect. Everything, _everything_ crystal clear, in such severe focus that the entire world seemed made of diamond, bright and cold and hard. When his thoughts flashed like lightning, so quick, so precise, so _right_ and so much under his control that he knew, _he knew_, this was what he was meant to be, this was the realization of all his potential, everything that seemed unused or dormant when he was sober.

He'd been flying, and had finally, perfectly, irrevocably understood the term 'high'. Straight into the blood stream. Clean needles were not difficult to obtain, nor was the purest cut, the best product. He moved some of it himself. He'd _felt_ it in his blood stream, _felt_ it greeting his brain, _felt _the euphoria wash over him like a wave, so that he had to remind himself, gasping and laughing, to breathe.

He'd looked at the needle on his coffee table then, seeing all of its lines, the shades, the shadows, the plastic, the metal.

_I will give you everything_, he thought and accepted it, was happy with it, he wanted to, because _this feeling_ was worth it.

Then:

_No. I don't want to._

It hadn't sobered him, not in the slightest, because he'd been too high for that, but he'd understood the truth in it.

He'd been nineteen.

But already everything was _his_, what he'd worked for, what he was going to have, what he could have, if he did _not_ chase this down, if this did not become the reason for his life, because if it did, there wouldn't be everything.

There would be nothing.

Still high, still soaring, really, he'd melted the needle over a Bunsen burner, having just enough presence of mind to hold it with tongs and not his fingers, then dropped the melted, puddling mass into the trash bin and rung for a cab – he had no cars of his own at that point, because he refused to accept any from his parents or his brother – and taken himself to a hospital.

Checked in under one of his aliases, for which he had all the paperwork and proper ID's, of course, and had been pumped full of benzos until he came down, shaking and throwing up, and that only strengthened his resolve.

Vomiting was unpleasant and undignified.

More unpleasant and undignified, of course, was Mycroft turning up, having found out in one of his infuriatingly unknown ways, and not lecture him even a little. That was worse than lecturing. Sherlock was accustomed to tuning out the lectures. Instead, Mycroft had simply sat with him while Sherlock had come down – if he'd been soaring before, then crashing was an apt analogy, because he felt exactly like he was being slammed into the Earth at high speeds – and said nothing.

As far as Sherlock knew, Mycroft had never so much as breathed a word about it to anyone else, least of all their mother. And the police had been kept out of it.

He'd been smoking before that, of course, but had started smoking more, almost as a bribe to himself. He'd pulled his hand out of the drugs trade after that, too, but had stayed in long enough to find new contacts in England for his suppliers. Not doing so would have resulted in him being quite dead quite quickly and this was impractical. He didn't care about where the goods went, this wasn't some bleeding-heart error-of-my-ways nonsense; it was a logical decision to take the temptation away from himself.

There was as much money to be had in the banks and real estate and moving people who had come to the rather sharp and pointed attention to the law. And most of these were less lethal, both in terms of the products and the players.

He heard, later, that Jim had picked up some of this trade and was uncertain if he was relieved or concerned. Sherlock was certain Jim wouldn't use the stuff himself, but, occasionally, his mind suggested to him what the world might look like if this were the case.

Gabriel showed no indications of interest in this.

Of course, he had forced Sherlock to quit smoking altogether – cold turkey was harder than coming down, because it went on forever, but they had these brilliant little patches that helped, dulled the nicotine cravings themselves but not really the desire for the _taste_.

If anything, Gabriel developed a fondness for incredibly expensive champagne, which Sherlock kept an eye on, but it did not seem to be headed anywhere dangerous and if he gave himself a hangover from champagne, it would likely curtail any future problems. Still, Sherlock watched for other signs, since simply relying on the unpleasant after effects of alcohol was not foolproof.

On Gabriel's eighteenth birthday, he moved the younger man out of his mother's house and into a flat of his own, in the same building in which Sherlock lived – at least most of the time – a few floors down for some privacy, but still close enough that, in his first place, he could not get into too much trouble.

It couldn't have come soon enough and, had Sherlock suspected he could get away with it without Margaret making trouble, he'd have done so much sooner. He kept a watch on the Mitchell house, and even kept it bugged, not out of a lack of respect for his young employee, but out of concern for his safety. He'd overheard Gabriel's brother, Richard, insult him once with such vehemence that Sherlock didn't just sense danger, he tasted it.

"_Fucking faggot."_

Even though Gabriel was not. He was bisexual, yes, but showed an unsurprising preference for women. Gabriel's sister, Marian, did her utmost to shield her younger brother, but she'd been the one to slip up and tell him, so her protection was dubious at best.

Sherlock had not wanted Gabriel living with that kind of discrimination, that hatred. He'd run up against homophobia himself once or twice, but moved around it with ease because it was always someone who meant nothing, some peon, some peasant. Never his family. No matter how aggravating Mycroft was, no matter how disinterested William was, no matter how dryly pointed Sibyl was, none of them had ever been so much as bothered by his sexual preferences.

Compared to Richard Mitchell, even Jim Moriarty seemed safer for Gabriel.

The younger man wandered round the expansive flat, his two suitcases seeming small in the living room, while Sherlock waited with a self-satisfied smile at the stunned and elated expression on his young partner's face. It was smaller than his own flat, though not by much, and he'd had it furnished, although assured Gabriel he could change anything he wanted at no expense to himself and Sherlock would arrange it.

He doubted the younger man would do so – Sherlock had judged well, as he always did.

"You know, last year you just bought me a piece of cake," Gabriel commented, after having finished his stunned, wandering tour, the look of near disbelief still clinging to the edges of his eyes.

Sherlock grinned.

"Well, now I know you better," he replied. "Also, there's cake in the fridge."

Gabriel laughed.

The building was highly secured, and Sherlock owned it, which explained away to Margaret Mitchell how Gabriel could afford to live there on his salary. Sherlock was reducing the rent substantially for him. He just didn't tell her he was reducing it to nothing. He might have been inclined to make Gabriel pay some rent if the younger man had given many indications of being frivolous with his money, but he was not. Quite the opposite, and Sherlock checked into his bank account, then made him spread it over several accounts, some under different names, and encouraged him to _do_ something with it. Gabriel seemed so unused to the idea that, unlike most people, he did not spend it unwisely. He did not seem to spend it at all.

Sherlock worked on this restraint until it began to ease. After all, the money was consistent, Gabriel had a steady job, and Sherlock was not about to fire him.

He taught Gabriel how to use the alarm system in his flat and insisted that he do so, even when the younger man baulked at it, and Gabriel got to know all of the doormen and security personnel, who liked him, of course. It helped that he flirted subtly with them, in a manner that wasn't quite flirting with those who wouldn't welcome it, but could be called friendly banter. Sherlock had taught him to learn and retain personal information about those he met, and Gabriel used this skill on the building staff.

The other tenants, some of whom were also his employees, some of whom were not, were all quiet and considerate of their neighbours. Those who weren't were asked to leave quite firmly and in no uncertain terms.

Sherlock had cause to be grateful for the security and for Gabriel's ability to get on with them when they rang him late one evening. This hadn't initially concerned him – they kept in regular contact with him to let him know how things were in the building, but this time, the voice over the phone, Jeff Benner, was worried.

"Mister Holmes? Sir, there's a problem."

"What is it, Jeff?" Sherlock enquired, wondering if it was the tenants in two-dee, whom he would have to speak to, if they desired to stay where they were.

But the sound of the keys in his locks made him look up – that was Gabriel, who had the only other set. Of course, Mycroft made his way in on more than one occasion, somehow completely bypassing Sherlock's security, which made Sherlock suspicious about secret tunnels or perhaps complicated and dangerous helicopter manoeuvres.

"It's Mister Mitchell, sir, he asked me not to call up, but –"

"I see," Sherlock cut him off, because Gabriel was standing in the entryway, leaning against the wall, really, his face smeared with blood from a broken nose, bruised almost everywhere that was visible, raw scrapes on his knuckles, drying blood on his clothing. How he'd gotten back to the building without drawing comment from the police or any passers-by was uncertain. "Call Mike Stamford and have him come immediately. I'll triple his pay if he can be here in under twenty minutes."

Sherlock rung off and helped Gabriel to the couch, noting the hitched breathing, the flash of pain with each inhalation, and diagnosing at least some cracked, if not broken ribs. He lay Gabriel down, very carefully, on his back, ignoring the blood that got onto the fine white Italian leather. These things could be replaced.

He evaluated the younger man quickly, giving him several tissues to press under his bleeding nose, noting the tears that streaked his bruised and bloody face, the betrayal in his green eyes.

"Your brother did this to you," he said.

Gabriel blinked in acknowledgement and anger flared hard, quickly, in Sherlock.

"And one of his mates," the younger man managed, wincing at each word.

Sherlock put his anger aside, because it was unproductive at the moment, and fetched a flannel, running it under cool water, and wiping Gabriel's face with it before pressing it over the younger man's forehead. It probably wasn't much in the way of medical care, but he was no doctor, and he was relieved when Mike Stamford showed up promptly, which his medical bag – being no stranger to house calls from Sherlock – and took charge of the situation very professionally.

Gabriel suffered through most of the process in silence, but yelled when Mike reset his broken nose, nearly crushing the bones in Sherlock's hand by squeezing it so tightly. He was cleaned and stitched and his bloodied shirt was removed, revealing more bruising, especially around his left ribs. So. Right-handed punches then, and kicks. Yes, brilliant, two older men against an eighteen-year-old.

_It must have made them feel quite powerful_, he sneered to himself.

Mike checked the broken ribs, moving his hands carefully, pressing lightly, but Gabriel hissed nonetheless, green eyes fixed on the ceiling. Mike bandaged the ribs and gave him some painkillers, leaving a prescription for more with Sherlock, as well as some advice on how to deal with the various wounds, and a promise to come back in two days time and check on everything. He gave some supplies to Sherlock as well, and told him how to change the bandages properly.

"And you could press charges against the men who did this," Mike said. "This is illegal."

At this, Gabriel almost smiled, his lips twitching. Mike knew fairly well what Sherlock did for a living. He was safely assuming Gabriel did much of the same.

"I'll ensure it's dealt with," Sherlock said and Mike just raised his eyebrows without comment.

After he'd left, Sherlock put a pillow under Gabriel's head and covered him with a light blanket, then settled himself on the floor against the couch. He could hear the faint hitch in Gabriel's breathing, from the pain in his ribs that even the analgesics couldn't cover just yet. The younger man didn't say anything, just stared blankly ahead of him, eyes uncomprehending. Sherlock kept his silence as well.

Gabriel fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. Sherlock stayed where he was and woke Gabriel when he started to have nightmares.

In the morning, he rang Cheryl down on the third floor and had her come up, Gabriel fast asleep.

"I'm going to take care of this," he said. "Don't ask him if he wakes up. Wake him if he starts having nightmares again."

He saw her note the "again", her brown eyes sharp.

She nodded, her curly brown hair shifting against her shoulders, looking up at him.

"Right, boss," she agreed.

Sherlock left Gabriel in her competent care and went to find Richard Mitchell, junior.

He tracked down Gabriel's brother at work, following him on his delivery runs until he headed into an industrial area. Sherlock waited until Richard was parked in a side lot and delivering several packages to a shipping firm, and let himself into the cab of the delivery van.

Richard was startled to find Sherlock there, using anger to cover the sudden and unexpected fear, but was kept in place largely by the gun that Sherlock had resting casually on one thigh.

Sherlock spoke at length about the nature of homophobia and its impracticality, assuring Richard that most gay men were likely to find him unattractive, since hatred and small-mindedness was not especially alluring, and that he was speaking from a position of authority on the subject.

He outlined precisely what a gun shot wound could do a body, depending on where the bullet entered, and discussed the possibilities of non-fatal shots, such as to the knee, and how much more painful they were. He pointed out that a bullet to the abdomen could be fatal, and often was, but not quickly, and was considered to be particularly agonizing and, if one did not die from it, it required major surgery and had an unpleasant recovery period.

He touched on the inadvisability of two grown men ganging up on a teenager and then on the assured loyalty, not to mention resources, of other people's brothers. He elucidated the difference between bisexuality and homosexuality and pointed out that many bisexuals tended to prefer the opposite sex anyway. He suggested that even if this were not the case with Gabriel, his brother's choice in partners would likely be far better thought out than Richard's, and he was far more likely to satisfy anyone, particularly on a physical level. That last bit made Richard snarl, but Sherlock put his hand lightly on his gun and the protest was immediately silenced.

He put forth the suggestion that if Richard wanted to harass someone based on their sexual orientation, he could start with Sherlock himself, but only if he wanted to discover exactly how much pain could be inflicted upon the human body in strange and inventive ways. He also pointed out that Gabriel may be Richard's younger brother, but in terms of intellect and ambition and personality and general likeability, he far surpassed his brother in every regard. He left Richard with the idea that two men against an adolescent would pale in comparison to Richard against Sherlock's resources, hinting at the possibility that his own organization was not the only one who would become involved.

He had no qualms about employing Jim's specialized brand of madness if necessary.

When he returned to his flat, abandoning Richard in his delivery van, white and shaking, Gabriel was still asleep, probably because of the morphine. Cheryl was sitting across from the young man, who looked physically almost no better except for he was cleaner, playing solitaire with a deck of cards. She seemed pleasantly obsessed with this game and carried a deck on her at all times, but there were far worse habits, and this one was cheap and kept her focused, so Sherlock supported it.

The following day, he had a new pack sent round to her, since the one she'd been using looked worn, and made sure to tack a healthy bonus onto her following paycheque, since babysitting injured young men was not, strictly speaking, in her job description.

Two days later, he found out from one of his people who the other man involved had been, and made better use of Cheryl, according to her job description, sending her round to deal with him with a certain cold yet professional finality.


	4. Chapter 4

_Did someone kick your puppy?_

Sherlock ignored the text message from Jim. He disliked it when the other man contacted him. It was possible Jim felt the same when Sherlock initiated contact.

Or that he enjoyed it.

Or that he didn't feel anything at all.

_I haven't seen you out walking him lately. Spotted him sitting on your balcony. He used to be so pretty. Need some help?_

Sherlock scowled at the latest message. Jim could go hang as far as he was concerned. In fact, it would improve matters greatly all around. Eliminate some competition. Remove a potential threat, both to himself and Gabriel. Probably save a few lives in the process. Although it would also give the police less to worry about, which may end up making Sherlock's life more difficult.

It was hard to judge on that last point.

He took strong objection to the assessment that Gabriel _used_ to be pretty. His cuts would heal and his bruises would fade. He would look more or less the same as he had before, although Sherlock did worry about the scar that he would undoubtedly have on his left cheek. It would look dashing and romantic to women who went in for that sort of thing, but it would also serve as a reminder of how he got it, every time he saw his own reflection.

_Things have been dealt with. Thank you for your concern,_ Sherlock sent back.

_I don't like people wrecking pretty things,_ Jim replied.

Sherlock kept a few choice curses to himself. He disliked Jim considering Gabriel either pretty or a thing. Both possibilities, and their combination, were too dangerous. Jim was not given to showing self-control when he decided he wanted something, even if that something was a person. He showed an unnecessary interest in Gabriel in large part, Sherlock knew, because he was with Sherlock. He'd been intrigued by Cheryl at first, too, until she'd shot one of his people in the knee for getting too close in a particularly threatening way. Sherlock had a dark suspicion that the fascination with Gabriel would last longer than the fascination with Cheryl, because Gabriel was Sherlock's protégé and male.

He dropped his phone back in his pocket, ignoring the latest message. He'd have to send some people to keep tabs on Jim, perhaps deliver some friendly put pointed warnings before the man decided to actually do anything. Although Sherlock was half tempted to let Jim have Sebastian deal with Richard Mitchell. He'd left Gabriel's older brother unharmed, for the sake of not destroying a family and making things worse at the moment, because they were quite bad enough as it was.

Sherlock had temporarily moved Gabriel into one of the spare bedrooms in his own flat to ensure he was being properly cared for and to deal with the sporadic but predictable nightmares. Mike Stamford came by every few days to check the injuries – the first time he'd come after the initial visit, he'd wanted Gabriel to go to a hospital, worried about the possibility of internal injuries, but the younger man had refused, even when Sherlock had attempted to insist. And he hadn't done so vehemently, just kept repeating "no" in a quiet voice and shaking his head each time it was suggested.

There was a certain spark missing in his green eyes.

Mike had taken Sherlock aside after the second of his visits and impressed upon him that it was often forgotten that victims of assault that was not sexual assault were still victims. That Gabriel had suffered something serious and traumatic and most likely needed help that he, Mike, could not provide. Not that Gabriel accepted it, and Sherlock disliked the idea of therapy on principle – too much talking about tedious emotions to a stranger, what good was that?

Then, one day, he heard Gabriel laugh at something on the telly and it was a genuine laugh, loosening the hold of betrayal and pain for a moment. After that, Sherlock put Gabriel back to work, as much as the younger man could handle, and required him to come to one or two business meetings with old clients who knew the younger man by now but who were discreet and well-mannered enough not to comment or ask questions.

Of course, going out meant people saw them, which meant Jim's people saw them, which meant, eventually, Jim saw them. This resulted in some unpleasantness when Jim had photographs taken and mailed to Margaret Mitchell, explicitly stating precisely who had inflicted these injuries on her youngest son.

This caused her to come round the building and then to call in the police in the form of two patrol constables. Sherlock met all of them in the lobby, arms crossed, grey eyes cool, refusing in no uncertain terms to let any of them in. Gabriel did not want to see his mother and the police had no search warrant. He was particularly well versed in the rights afforded to the police to speak with civilians and had several highly paid lawyers on call whenever he required them. He impressed this on the police officers, a mediocre looking man named Roberts and a bright looking woman named Donovan who would probably go quite far, if she did not push her luck that day.

"Look, sir," Donovan argued. "We just need to know if he's all right."

"I've told you that he's all right," Sherlock replied calmly.

"You got him beaten up!" Margaret shouted at him and Donovan turned, shooting the woman an angry glare.

"Ma'am, please, let us handle this –"

"Don't 'ma'am, please' me!" Margaret snapped. "This man – "

"Is having him properly cared for by a personal physician. I had nothing to do with your son's assault. It was his older brother who did this, and their quarrel had absolutely nothing to do with me. Nor did it really have anything to do with Gabriel. If you're looking to place blame, then do so on Richard, because, believe me, Gabriel looked much worse than in the photographs you were sent."

"Yes, who did send those?" Donovan asked, turning back.

"I don't know," Sherlock lied shortly. "Certainly not me."

"Why would someone send photographs of Mister Mitchell to his mother?" Donovan pressed.

"Constable, I've just told you I don't know who sent them. Are you now asking me to deduce the motivations of an unknown individual? Instead of talking to me, would it not be a better use of your time to speak to Richard Mitchell and find out why he found it necessary to assault his brother?"

"Richard wouldn't do that!" Margaret protested.

Sherlock fixed her with a cool glare that shut her up quickly and caused the female constable, who was quicker on the uptake, to step up, almost between them.

"One of your sons is a liar," Sherlock said. "And a criminal." He didn't bother pointing out that, technically, they were both criminals, because Gabriel had never inflicted anything like this on another person, particularly for such a non-existent offense. "The other is recovering under my care and that of my physician and does not wish to see you. Constable Donovan, this is _my_ property and I do not want this woman trespassing upon it or my time any longer. Gabriel Mitchell is eighteen and under the law responsible for himself and his own decisions. If he chooses not to see his mother, no one can force him, least of all me. I want you gone from my home, Mrs. Mitchell, and I do not want you to return unless you are specifically invited."

He left them there, knowing that his own security would impose upon the police should Margaret fail to leave, and returned to his flat. Gabriel was sitting on the new couch, hands balled into fists that were digging into his legs. He had the telly tuned to the security feed channel and was watching the constables talk his mother from the lobby.

"How did she find out?" he asked in a flat voice that concerned Sherlock.

"Jim," Sherlock replied shortly.

"Ah." There was a pause. "And about Richard?"

"Also Jim."

"Did she believe it?"

"No."

Gabriel nodded as though this did not especially surprise him and shut off the telly.

"If you need more time off, you are welcome to it," Sherlock said. "With pay, of course."

"No," Gabriel replied and fell silent for a long moment, staring at nothing. Sherlock noted the small twinges of discomfort in his expression – his ribs were still bothering him. Then he refocused on Sherlock, shaking his head. "No, I'd rather not sit here being useless."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said with grim satisfaction. "Because I've an idea."

* * *

><p>He didn't often to do this sort of thing himself – this is what he had employees for, after all – but it paid to keep one's self in the game, to stay on one's toes. He didn't bring Gabriel, but included the younger man in the planning, along with Simone, who had been an architect but who had, Sherlock had noted upon meeting her, a penchant for charting a building's weak spots. She did this everywhere she went, and transferred her skills to blueprints as well, and was therefore extraordinarily useful for a great many things.<p>

He had others as well, but the planning revolved mostly around the three of them, and more on Sherlock and Simone, since Gabriel was still learning, but he did so with enthusiasm, more so for this particular venture, his green eyes sharply bright while they worked. Sherlock would have liked to have taken him, but a man with healing bruises and cuts would draw attention, and he could not move as quickly as they would need to, because of his ribs.

In necessitated an overnight trip to Liverpool, which Sherlock disliked, but it was the closest major port to Dublin and he knew Jim had had this particular piece of merchandise transported by boat. It was a short crossing by boat on the Irish Sea, and water- or land-based smuggling was far easier within the EU than smuggling via air traffic. Too many new restrictions and security problems since those incidents in the United States the previous year.

He chose Gerald as his driver and the man was exceptional at getting where Sherlock wanted with the minimum amount of fuss and time. His team was entirely hand-picked by himself, Simone and two others he could trust: Charles and Poe, whose real name was Alan Edgar, earning him, of course, the distinction of having his names reversed and then misspelled and then being labelled with the long-dead poet's surname.

The job went off precisely as planned, because it was Sherlock who had planned it, and they returned to London, leaving Liverpool in the small hours of the morning, arriving just in time to miss the beginnings of rush hour.

The painting, stolen from Russborough House in Ireland, the home of Sir Alfred Beit, was carefully packaged and secured in a small crate that rested between Sherlock, who was awake, watching the scene blur past outside his darkened window, and Simone, who was sleeping leaning against Poe. He had also dropped off, their heads pillowed against one another, and Sherlock thought it looked oddly domestic and wondered about what sort of wedding gift was appropriate for an employer to purchase for two employees, since he was certain that Poe was intending to propose within the next week. The substantial sum that had been charged to Garrard's on his credit card the previous week was a good indication.

Charles was dozing as well, lying on the back seat of the limousine, one arm flung over his eyes. Sherlock preferred this, that his people slept when they could, and it was, legitimately, the middle of the night. It was better than having them avail themselves of the bar, which he kept stocked although rarely used himself.

He sold the painting for a substantial sum, having no interest in it – he thought it was mediocre at best – then, once the money had been sitting in several Swiss accounts for a little over two weeks and Gabriel's bruises were gone and his breathing was easier, as were his movements, Sherlock sent an anonymous tip through various channels as to the whereabouts of the painting and the identities of the thieves. He himself could not be traced back as the man who had sold the stolen art, of course, and set it quite nicely so it looked like Jim's Irish gang had made the transaction, and they were promptly arrested with the help of Interpol – this gave Sherlock a particular sense of satisfaction, given that the agency had tried to recruit Gabriel – and the painting was recovered from its current owner and returned to its legal owner without Jim seeing a single pence's profit from it.

He gave a healthy sum of the earnings to both Gabriel and Simone but was more rewarded by the triumphant gleam in Gabriel's green eyes, which had been sorely missing since his attack.

He allowed his protégé to move back into his own flat when Mike cleared him medically, but kept a sharp eye on him. Sherlock considered installing bugs to listen for nightmares, but he was not Mycroft and had always baulked at listening in on those whom he trusted, even if he had to resort to it on occasion. After all, trust was earned and went both ways. Nonetheless, he watched for shadows in Gabriel's eyes, circles around them that would indicate lack of sleep, moments of drifting concentration or just general fatigue. These happened occasionally and once or twice he found Gabriel asleep on his couch in the mornings, as if proximity to another human being could help offset disturbing dreams.

Perhaps it could.

Sherlock didn't know how it worked for Gabriel, and he himself was not prone to nightmares in the slightest.

_That was not nice_, Jim sent via text message shortly following the highly publicized arrest of his Irish art thieves.

_No more than you deserve_, Sherlock sent back.

_Le Gavroche 7 pm, _Jim replied.

Sherlock dressed appropriately and went. He was seated by a deferential waiter and given a glass of red wine from a bottle that had apparently been pre-ordered. He sipped it, alternating with the cool water that had also been provided, because he had not yet decided if he had any intentions of staying. Even dinners with Jim were unpredictable, and Sherlock had a long list of people with whom he'd rather spend time.

That list even included Mycroft.

Jim slouched into the opposite chair six minutes later, in a suit, although Sherlock had always thought the other man's suits were somewhat ill-fitting, as if he bought them and then lost weight and never could quite get the right size. Sherlock, on the other hand, preferred something with a more fitted waist and better cut to emphasize both his frame and his height. But then, he was much more attractive than Jim and was aware that both of them knew this.

"Oh, you're no _fun_," Jim admonished after the waiter had poured him a glass of wine and then vanished silently and respectfully.

"On the contrary, I found that to be quite entertaining," Sherlock replied, keeping his long fingers wrapped around the stem of the wine glass, but not raising it.

Jim huffed.

"That took _ages_ to work out," he complained. "And I'll have to pay loads to have them released early, so it's a good thing the pound is stronger than the Euro."

"I'm sure you'll muddle through," Sherlock replied.

Jim stiffened, huffing unintentionally, then sitting back, shooting Sherlock a glare.

"I _asked_ if you wanted help," he sulked.

"And I said no," Sherlock replied. "I'd dealt with the problem, James. You only served to make it worse."

He saw Jim's nostril's flare slightly at the use of his full name, but Sherlock would be damned if he was going to use the ridiculous nickname the man had adopted in a place such as this. They were probably being charged for the oxygen they were consuming, although this would all go on Jim's bill, of course.

He had, after all, asked Sherlock to meet him, not vice versa.

"You left the brother alive," Jim sighed, as if this was some sort of hideous transgression, which Sherlock supposed it was, from Jim's point of view.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "I have my reasons."

"Would it have upset your puppy that much?" Jim asked, leaning forward. "Really? His brother attacks him, assaults him, yet he would somehow feel betrayed had you taken care of it properly? Still _loves_ him?"

Sherlock sighed inwardly; he'd asked himself the same question, but he, unlike Jim, knew the proper answer. It was not so simple as flipping a light switch, but the complexities of human emotions, which sometimes baffled Sherlock with their impracticality, were a complete unknown to Jim. Not a mystery, no, because that presumed something that could be solved. Instead, he considered them an aberration or perhaps an illness which could be treated, with the right remedies.

"Regardless of Gabriel's opinions, your services were not requested," Sherlock said coolly. "You have made the situation less tolerable than it already is, which required me to return the favour. However, I do believe I've come out on top, as five million quid is not to be argued with."

He decided abruptly against staying, since Gabriel had not been particularly well that day, and Jim's company was only going to grate at him if he consented to remain for an entire dinner. Besides, he'd never much cared for the food at this place, despite Jim's obvious appreciation for it and the fact that it was ridiculously overpriced. Perhaps that was what Jim liked about it.

"You're a touch protective, you know," Jim said as Sherlock pushed himself to his feet.

Sherlock leaned down, splaying the fingertips of his right hand against the fine white linen that covered the table, bringing his face close enough to Jim's to see the discomfort that was not quite masked in the man's brown eyes

"Oh, more than a touch," he assured his rival and counterpart. "Stay away from what's mine."

"Or what, Sherlock?" Jim asked with remarkable poise, although Sherlock strongly suspected that the psychopath enjoyed feeling the thrill of terror. That, to him, it was less of a warning and more of a drug. The thing that _he_ would give up everything for. He sought it out like a man dying of thirst would chase a mirage in a desert.

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows upward, assuming an amused but threatening expression.

"Or we shall see just how high that pain tolerance of yours is when it comes to pincers and pliers and hot iron. Yes? Or how much Sebastian enjoys the feel of a bullet when directed at him, and if you can continue to operate quite so well without him. Or, perhaps, just how much satisfaction the Met would feel arresting you and what you would think spending a night in a cell, with all of those low, common criminals and their ideas about men like you."

With that, he straightened and walked away, knowing he probably hadn't instilled real fear – Jim being incapable of feeling this – but had at least made a suitable caution that would cause the other man to think twice about interfering with Gabriel again anytime soon.


	5. Chapter 5

"You're mad!"

"It's not mad."

"I didn't say _it _was mad, I said _you_ were mad. Although it's mad as well! Since when do we do this sort of work? Keeping people in prison? We're not bloody police, we're actually criminals!"

Sherlock sighed, folding his arms, tapping the fingers of his right hand against his left upper arm.

"Really, I do know that," he said. "I _am_ your boss, after all."

"Well, I'm not going. It's totally mad."

"What's mad about it?"

"It's –" Gabriel waved a hand dramatically, as though this would actually clarify anything at all. "They're all mad! The food is terrible! And they all have guns!"

"First, they are _not_ all mad, because an entire nation of mad people is highly improbable and would likely cease functioning quite quickly. Also, you're overly fond of that word. Second, their food? You're English, Gabriel. And their cities are generally quite cosmopolitan. We can find restaurants that rival the ones here." He ignored Gabriel's muttered 'I bloody doubt it' and continued: "Third, they do not _all_ have guns. Besides, you have a gun. Several, in fact. And it's substantially less legal for you to have one than for them."

Gabriel crossed his arms, glaring, and Sherlock grinned.

"Yes, but we're not going to New York, where we might actually find some civilisation, but Florida!"

"You're acting as though the whole country is still caught in the eighteen-hundreds with horse thieves and western-style gun fights. Which also generally happened in the _western_ part of the country. I doubt anywhere is like that, and besides, we're going to Miami, which is a large city and quite urbane, from what I'm given to understand."

"They have crocodiles!" Gabriel snapped.

"Alligators, I think you'll find."

"Whatever! It doesn't matter when you're being eaten by one!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I can hardly imagine that they allow alligators to roam about the streets molesting people and eating them."

"I'm still not going."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"This isn't an option, Gabriel. I am still your boss. You may remember. I did just remind you a moment ago."

Gabriel threw up his hands in disgust.

"Why are you even doing this? Who _cares_ about this man anyway? Why does it matter to you if he remains in prison on death row?"

Sherlock shifted his stance slightly.

"It matters because Henry Hudson is a violent and unpredictable man and business without him has been much smoother and more profitable since his arrest, but he has a very highly paid lawyer who is poised to have him released on a technicality."

Gabriel sighed, narrowing his green eyes.

"Jim is violent and unpredictable, too, and you've never given the police here any of the information you have that could have him arrested. And you've got loads. I know this, because I have more than enough."

"Well, then, neither have you turned him into the police," Sherlock said. "And while Jim is unpredictable, he himself is rarely violent, because he dislikes getting his hands dirty. He has other people who manage the violence for him. But he is also subtle and interested in remaining unknown to the law and in making as much money as possible while doing so. He is not loud and brash and has never jeopardized any financial transactions of mine. And, even if he had some sort of partner or a wife, he would not beat her."

Gabriel started and stared.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"So wait, it's all right that Jim will shoot his employees for betraying him, but not all right for someone else to rough someone up?"

"Precisely," Sherlock said. "Jim's employees understand who they are dealing with – or they should – and know the risks of betrayal. It's business. Abusing someone who loves and trusts you and expects – and should expect – to be treated well is utterly uncalled for. _You_ know that."

"So that's why you're doing this? For his wife?"

"And the nearly twenty million pounds he cost me in that Cayman deal that he ruined with his poor excuse for a character."

"That was two years ago."

"Twenty million buys a lot of memory," Sherlock said sharply.

"So, what, will you shoot me if I don't come?"

"No, but I will smuggle back an alligator and release it into your flat late at night."

Gabriel stared at him, then rolled his eyes.

"All right, fine," he muttered. "But you'd better have us booked in somewhere bloody swanky."

"When do I not?" Sherlock asked.

Gabriel shot him a glare.

"Just see that you do. Preferably without crocodiles."

"Alligators."

"Whatever!"

The complaining and grumbling had ceased as soon as they had boarded the plane, flying first class, alone in the tiny cabin with a flight attendant all of their own, whom Sherlock ignored and Gabriel flirted with because that was what he did. Sherlock was more than capable of this, but it was a relief to leave the women to Gabriel, who handled them well, even when he wasn't really interested, because it still never hurt to make the effort and could result in information when needed.

Not that the flight attendant had any, but Gabriel was just like that, either keeping his hand in the game or just doing it because it now came naturally, his English accent, which had been moulded to an upper class tone, flattering the American flight attendant and they chatted amiably about nothing in particular, although Sherlock smirked when Gabriel asked if she'd ever seen alligators herself in Florida. He seemed slightly let down that she wasn't from Florida and replied no, she had not seen any and hoped not to.

They bounced men easily between them, which was new, something that had developed within the last year, and Sherlock took this as a good sign, because it had been now been five years since Richard Mitchell and his friend had attacked Gabriel, and Sherlock had worried for far too long that the unprovoked, uncalled for assault had made the younger man unwilling to see men as interesting and see them instead as potential attackers. Or perhaps something of the violent judgment had been impressed into him and he couldn't help it. It was frustrating that these things took time to heal, that one stupid decision by someone else could have such long, unremarked upon effects.

He still had a scar on his left cheek, although this had faded from the original glaring red to white and was now fairly easy to dismiss. Sherlock had grown used to seeing it, but still wondered if Gabriel did.

One day, six months after the assault, they had run into Richard, quite literally, on their way to a business meeting, the older Mitchell brother delivering some package to the same building downtown and Gabriel had gone sheet white, and Sherlock had stepped between them, telling Richard to leave. He had seen the myriad insults in the other man's eyes, accusations that this was the man his brother was fucking – not true then, not true now – ideas that no pansy was going to tell him what to do, the urge to threaten in return, to use physical force until Sherlock had reminded him of the gun he carried, and that he was more than willing to use it.

"For all your misplaced stereotypes, I'm also much stronger than you physically and suggest it is in your best interests not to test that statement."

Richard had left and Sherlock had cancelled the meeting, hauling Gabriel bodily back to the car, pushing him into the seat and then pushing him forward to lean his head between his knees, keeping a hand on the back of his neck the whole ride to prevent him from sitting up and passing out.

Three days later, Richard Mitchell was arrested on charges of theft from his employer and Sherlock had had nothing to do with it. He'd checked on Jim's activities, but either Jim was getting better at covering his tracks from Sherlock – not likely – or he had nothing to do with it. No one seemed to have anything to do with it, except his employer. Sherlock was certain Jim would have gloated about it, too, despite any prior warnings. Jim discarded warnings the way other people discarded their rubbish.

It was going to get him in trouble one day, and Sherlock very much intended that he should be the source of that trouble.

For the time being, however, he was intent on delivering some trouble to Henry Hudson for the twenty million the man had cost him and for the sake of a woman whom Sherlock did not even know but who certainly deserved better from her husband, as Gabriel had from his brother.

For all that Mycroft was extraordinary irritating and overbearing and liked to subject Sherlock to lectures on the law and how delicate it was maintaining a balance between his work and Sherlock's own, at least he'd never threatened violence. Nor would he; Mycroft, for all his resources and power and practicality was not the type, not with family.

Gabriel was pleased with the complete lack of alligators in the hotel and they went several days without seeing even one, and then from a distance, although these days were made less pleasant by dealing with men whom Sherlock would prefer to not be in the same building with, let alone speak to. They were suspicious and angry, having lost not quite their boss, but someone high up, at least from their perspectives, someone who knew what was going on, who could do the planning.

They had not lost him to Sherlock, however, and were willing to believe – eventually – that these two haughty British men were interested in finding a way of getting Hudson _out _of prison, for the sake of his lovely wife, of course, she's devastated, doesn't know what to do without him, poor woman, et cetera. Sherlock played this as genuine concern, Gabriel played it as irritation that they were doing such a petty job for some woman he didn't even know, and Sherlock was slightly amazed that the standard, nearly stereotypical "good cop, bad cop" routine, somewhat modified, worked without anyone seeing through it.

It took some time – time being a week by Sherlock's standards – to tease out some of the details he was looking for, moving through far too many people, through business meetings and clubs and lawyers and phone calls and three undercover police whom he identified easily, although Gabriel only picked one of them out, so they were not doing such a bad job after all, and hopefully would not get themselves killed. He wanted no part in anything touching an officer's death in this country – really in any country – since it brought lot of unpleasant weight down very quickly, and he had no intentions of finding himself up against the death penalty.

Henry Hudson, however, remained on death row despite the threat from his lawyers to have him released on a technicality when some information came to the police securely linking him with two other murders, that of a woman and her young son who had vanished three years previous. Sherlock felt only a grim satisfaction in having turned over the information – anonymously, via lawyers of his own – because there was nothing to appreciate when it came to confirming the death of a child, particularly not when there were family members still alive, hoping against all hope that the worst had not happened.

When that unpleasantness was dealt with, at least on Sherlock's end, because it would still go through the courts, he was surprised to find Gabriel insistent that they stay a few additional days, to go to the beaches.

"You need some sun," Gabriel said. "You're the whitest person on the planet."

"I'm not that pale," Sherlock retorted.

"Sherlock, you bloody glow in the dark."

Sherlock had snorted but had been forced to admit, once on the beach, that most of the sun worshippers were quite dark in comparison to him, and even Gabriel had more colour. His young partner had bought him some strong sunscreen and had even set a little timer as to when he had to reapply, stating that he wasn't listening to Sherlock whining the whole way home because he'd gotten a sunburn.

Sherlock was hard-pressed to recall the last time he'd whined about anything. But he submitted to this because it was practical and he did not want to damage his skin – being pale was not necessarily a bad thing, as he drew a lot of glances, some of them admiring, but most of these from women. He ignored all of the looks and consented to three days of actual vacation, taking a certain glee in pointing out the complete lack of alligators on the beach or in the ocean and listening to Gabriel mutter "yes, shut up" from over the top of his book.

He took a final day at the end of their time in Florida to plan and execute the theft – via computer – of almost ten million American dollars the police had seized from Henry Hudson's bank accounts, which was far less than the total he'd amassed of course, but removing all of it would potentially bring about more problems than it was worth. It certainly didn't make up for the twenty million pounds, particularly not with the exchange rate the way it was for the Americans, but he was certain he could find something to do with it. It was enough to know he'd rattled both the police and Hudson, who would certainly receive some trouble about the sudden and utterly untraceable missing money. The thought made him smile the entire way home, making up for the fact that there were two other people travelling in first class with them this time.

Cheryl met them at the airport, with Gerald waiting in the car. She enjoyed doing this job, which wasn't strictly necessary, but she had some notions that people should be met at the airport when coming home, regardless or whether or not the trip was for business. She played solitaire, of course, waiting on their slightly delayed flight, and grinned when she saw both of them.

"Look at you, boss. You've gotten a bit of colour, then. Slightly less pale. Did you get him to go to the beach, Gabe?"

Gabriel hugged her and she gave him a kiss on the cheek – Sherlock had been pleased to see something of a sibling-like relationship develop between them, because both of them needed it to some extent.

"I did, believe it or not," Gabriel replied.

"Bet he was the same colour as the sand," Cheryl commented with a grin.

"If the two of you do not stop, I will fire you," Sherlock replied without any real threat whatsoever, and Cheryl grinned, giving him a cheeky wink. Gabriel was rubbing off on her in unexpected ways.

"Right then, let's get your bags at least before you do that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but they fetched their bags and went home and he breathed a silent sigh of relief to be enveloped in London once more. He checked his voicemail, ignoring all the calls from Mycroft, who had made some vague but pointed comments about a strange recent theft of financial assets that been seized by the police in the United States. Did Sherlock know anything about this? After all, he had recently been there himself. Sherlock deleted these messages but saved the one from his mother, making a mental note to return that call. She would not ask about the money, even if she knew about it.

He went back to work immediately, although Gabriel took two days to deal with the jet lag, from which Sherlock had never suffered. It puzzled him, this phenomenon, because he simply adjusted. How did other people not? It must be intolerable to have one's body not respond to one's mind. It was, in fact, mind over matter, he believed this firmly, and it only reinforced his opinion of the intellectual capacity of others. He suspected Jim didn't get jet lag, if only because Jim didn't notice pesky little things like discomfort and time zones and physical sensations.

A knock on his office door one day shortly after they'd returned brought in Tina, his secretary, who looked a bit hesitant at interrupting him, even though this was part of her job. Since she rarely looked so, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her and considered her body language. Someone was there to see him, not someone with whom she was comfortable. But not Jim, because Jim would have announced himself by now, probably beforehand by text, and Jim disliked coming to Sherlock's office for several reasons. It pinned him down to a location that was not his own turf, Sherlock had a very expensive and very state of the art security system, and he couldn't order overpriced food or wine. Besides, Sherlock had a fairly good sense of when Jim was going to contact him.

The stranger wasn't a man, either, because Tina lacked that subtle anxiety about someone who was physically stronger than her and could intimidate her if necessary. Not even an older man, since the assistant would probably be looking more inclined to get her boss to be kind and meet with him, especially if the older man had mastered the twinkle-in-his-eye grandfatherly persona that worked so well on young women. So. Not a younger woman, either, certainly not anyone with any sort of training or power who could threaten his secretary discreetly. This narrowed down the choices quite a bit, and it certainly wasn't Sibyl, who would have breezed right in without Tina's consent or interference and would have, by now, reduced Sherlock expertly (and not entirely unwelcomely, he admitted to himself) to feeling like a small child again.

"Send her in, Tina," he said, waving a hand, all of this having taken a mere moment to flash through his mind, and Tina nodded, looking surprised, as though Sherlock had been expecting this visit and she'd simply not known about it.

She left the door and a moment later an older woman in her sixties, carrying herself well, tall, but still looking uncertain, came in, shutting the door gently behind her. Sherlock put on his best welcoming smile and stood, coming round the desk to greet her, hand extended to shake hers.

"Martha Hudson, if I'm not mistaken. Sherlock Holmes. Such a pleasure to meet you."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** hat-tip to **grannysknitting** for the second scene in this chapter.

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><p>"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mister Holmes," Martha Hudson said, although Sherlock hadn't really agreed to anything – but hadn't sent her away, either.<p>

"Please, sit," he said, gesturing to one of the leather chairs that faced his desk and she did so, almost perching on the edge, not quite. "Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"Tea would be lovely," Mrs. Hudson said, nodding. Sherlock called Tina and had her make tea for them, then sat back down behind his desk, clearing away a few things, directing his attention to the woman who sat across from him. She was clearly somewhat nervous, but not overly so, and there was a set to her jaw and a glint in her eyes that spoke of a hidden but steely determination.

He smiled.

Good to see that had survived, or been cultivated.

"How can I help you, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked after Tina had delivered their teas and left.

She looked surprised, setting her tea saucer down on his desk neatly.

"Mister Holmes, I understand you already have," she said, and at this, Sherlock allowed himself to cock an eyebrow at her, sipping his own tea before setting the cup aside with a gentle clink.

This was absolutely true, of course, but she should have no way of knowing it. He had certainly never met her before, and had no reason to tell her, but someone had. He studied her carefully, she was holding her shoulders squared through some effort – she was not quite defiant, although waiting for something, not an admonishment, no, but some sort of balancing of the books, as though she owed him something.

"My former husband is not a nice man, Mister Holmes. I believe I am in your debt for the information you gave the police in Florida. I sleep easier at night knowing he's not going to get out. Ever."

Sherlock leaned forward slightly, lacing his hands together, resting his arms on his desk.

"Mrs. Hudson, I quite agree with you that your husband is not a nice man. He is cruel, selfish, arrogant without merit and used force and brute intimidation to get his way where better people would use cunning and intelligence. To be quite honest with you, I am not a nice man, either, although I cannot say I would ever stoop to his tactics, either in business or in regards to my personal life and the people in it. I've had the misfortune of dealing with your former husband, Mrs. Hudson, and I'm aware of how he treated you, but he also cost me nearly twenty million pounds which I will never see again, and it does not bode well for me or my business interests or associates to see his type out and about, causing problems, getting in the way. How you judge the world as better with him removed from it is entirely up to you, but I stand to make quite a bit more money much more easily without his complications."

She gave him a slightly surprised, appraising look, delaying answering by sipping her tea.

"I know you didn't do this for me, Mister Holmes, since you don't know me, and I'm not surprised to hear about the money he lost you – Henry was quite good at losing money, his and other people's – but I want to thank you all the same. I don't jump so much when I hear a knock at the door, I don't look over my shoulder so much walking up the street."

"He still has a lot of business associates who are free," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, I know," Mrs. Hudson replied. "And maybe they will come after me, maybe they won't. Maybe they don't care. I'm not worth much to them anyway, I've almost no money and my house would only be small change to men like them – men like you, too, I assume. But Henry _would_ have come for me, one way or another."

Sherlock considered her again, then nodded.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson, if I have brought you some measure of peace of mind, then I'm glad of it. It is not every day that I hear that, and it makes somewhat of a nice change. However, can you please tell me who told you about all of this? I'd rather not have my involvement be a matter of general knowledge."

"Of course, neither would I. It's fairly clear even to me that my husband's associates might think _you_ worth pursuing. It was a young man, he said he worked for you. Very pleasant young man, very charming, but bit of a smooth talker, you mark my words. It could get him into trouble one day, but maybe not. He said his name was Gabriel Mitchell."

At this, Sherlock drew back slightly in surprise.

"Are you certain about that?" he asked.

"Yes, I am," she said firmly. "I may not be as young as I once was, young man, but my memory is as sharp as ever. I'm not so old as to be an old woman."

"That is not at all what I'm suggesting," Sherlock assured her smoothly, pulling out his phone and thumbing through his list of contacts, pulling up Jim's and displaying the photograph he kept of the man precisely for this purpose – to confirm with witnesses. "Was it him?"

He held the phone out to her and she leaned forward somewhat to study it, then frowned and shook her head.

"No, no, not at all. Younger than that, better looking, with green eyes. Very distinctive, that. I remember thinking to myself that you don't get that often in Englishmen, sometimes Scottish people or Irish."

"Really," Sherlock said, hearing the flat note in his voice. He called up a photograph of Gabriel quickly and showed it to her.

"Yes, that's him." She paused. "Is there some problem?"

"No," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "No problem at all. Mrs. Hudson, thank you very much for coming, and I'm very pleased to have been able to help you. Take this," he gave her one of his business cards, "And please ring me if you ever think one of your husband's people has come looking for you."

"Shouldn't I call the police instead?" she asked.

"No. You should call them as well," he replied. "But me first. I'm much more efficient."

She took the business card and stood and Sherlock rose to shake her head and show her from the office, smiling kindly at her, thanking her again, bidding her good-bye. When she was gone, footsteps receding past Tina's desk and toward the lift, he hissed a breath between his teeth.

_That little –_ he thought but suppressed a savage grin because really, who had taught Gabriel everything he knew?

"Fine," Sherlock said to himself and circled his desk again, settling in front of his computer and spending a few quick minutes checking for something, then rising to snag his coat and opened his office door.

"Tina, cancel all of my appointments and order a car. I've got to go down to the shops."

* * *

><p>He waited until almost three in the morning, sitting utterly unnoticed in Gabriel's kitchen on a high wooden chair at the island in the centre of the room, watching the city vaguely while the actual inhabitant of the flat slept unaware of his presence. Of course, Gabriel had an alarm system. Sherlock had taught him how to use it. But Sherlock also paid the security personnel who could shut it off for him, and had the keys to Gabriel's flat and knew the security code in any case.<p>

He spun his phone absently on the granite countertop until the clock on the microwave read 2:59 and then rang Gabriel's number. The master bedroom was far enough away that the younger man could not hear him, and nor could Sherlock hear Gabriel's sleepy "yes, what is it?" other than through the phone.

"Get up, work to do," Sherlock said brusquely.

"Right," Gabriel said and hung up and Sherlock leaned back slightly and waited, then smiled at the sudden scream.

_That_ he could hear quite clearly through the doors and walls.

"Oh my God! Goddammit! _What the bloody hell?_" he heard, following up on that. "_What? WHAT? SHERLOCK!"_

Sherlock got up, unhurried, and wandered into the sitting room, hearing a door slam open and footsteps – bare feet – stomping across the hardwood and the light was flicked on in the corridor, spilling a yellow glow into the living room, which was otherwise lit only by London's ever-present luminance.

Gabriel stood, seething, in the archway, in an old t-shirt and cotton pyjama pants, green eyes blazing, and Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the mismatched and slightly tatty sleepwear. All that money Sherlock paid him and he slept in that? That would have to be remedied. After all, what if someone saw him? Sherlock just had.

"What the bloody hell is that all about?" Gabriel shouted at him, shoulders heaving, adrenalin suddenly useless, and Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.

"What?" he asked.

"That!" he jabbed a finger back down the hall, toward his bedroom. "You put a goddamn bloody _alligator_ in my bedroom!"

"It's not an alligator, Gabriel. It's a stuffed toy. Although I understand how, in the darkness, it may be difficult to discern the difference."

"It's six bloody feet long! And it's the most realistic stuffed toy I've ever seen! You might as well have gone to a taxidermist!"

"I did try that," Sherlock admitted. "Alligators are not, unfortunately, a common taxidermy item in England."

"They're not – " Gabriel started, then cut himself off. "Why on Earth would you do that? I went to Florida with you! I helped you get Hudson in jail for good, and they're going to fry his brain or gas him or inject him or whatever it is they do, I don't even know!"

"Lethal injection is the only method currently used, I believe."

"Whatever! It doesn't mean you need to put an alligator in my room! I didn't think that was a _real_ threat! Besides, I went with you!"

"I know, you've just said. And I remember."

"So!" Gabriel cried, gesturing back at his bedroom again.

"Martha Hudson came to thank me for keeping her husband on death row."

Gabriel drew himself up short and blinked, the fight draining momentarily out of his muscles.

"Oh," he said.

"You didn't think she would, did you?"

"Um," he chewed his lower lip. "No."

"Not that I disapprove, actually. It's a bit of a nice change to be thanked, to be honest. But you didn't see fit to even warn me?"

"Well, like you said, I didn't think she'd go see you."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow in response. Gabriel hesitated a moment, then dropped himself into a chair, slouching down, giving Sherlock a glare without any real bite or threat.

"And yet she did. It may have been better for her had she not known, however."

"No," Gabriel contradicted. "She had to know."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him again; he was used to Gabriel questioning him, less used to Gabriel disagreeing with him flat out when it came to his assessments about people.

Gabriel sighed, lacing his fingers together on his stomach, crossing his legs at the ankle, tapping his right foot absently on nothing. Sherlock waited; he had more than enough experience with his young partner to know that this was the time to keep silent.

"Richard gets out in ten weeks," he said.

Sherlock nodded; he knew that. It was the second time Richard Mitchell had been released from prison – he'd gone back in quite quickly after the first time, for a more serious offense which carried a longer sentence. Sherlock had had Gabriel in France when Richard had last been released, a temporary measure on his part while he established how to best keep the man away from his younger brother, but Richard had solved that by resorting to his speciality – assault – this time, quite accidentally but fortuitously for Sherlock, on an undercover police officer.

And so Sherlock had brought Gabriel home. This time, Gabriel had dismissed suggestions that he go anywhere for his own protection.

"So you were right," Gabriel said.

"I always am," Sherlock replied smoothly. "So you will have to specify as to what."

"You told me before we left that I should understand what it's like to be betrayed by someone in my family, someone I'm supposed to be able to trust not to hurt me. I do know what that's like, Sherlock. And so does she. The difference is, Richard can't hurt me anymore. What does he have? A criminal record, twice over, assaulting a cop no less, he's just lucky he didn't do worse to her, no money, no prospects, no connections. What do I have? Everything he doesn't. Mrs. Hudson hasn't much money. She was me, when I was eighteen. Worse, because I at least had you. I know what it's like to need to feel safe. I thought I could give her that. I really didn't think she'd come round to talk to you, or yes, I'd have told you. I should have anyway. Sorry."

Sherlock considered this carefully but quickly. He had meant what he'd said to Gabriel of course, he just hadn't expected Gabriel to contemplate it much more, or do what he had done with the information. After five years, Gabriel continued to surprise him.

So few people were capable of this.

"You are not worried about your own safety," he said, half stating, half asking.

"No," Gabriel replied, shaking his head. "It was five years ago and I've learned a lot since. And, like you pointed out, I have several guns. And I know how to use them, thanks to you. I don't think he's going to come looking for me, but if he does, I'm not going to damn near pass out like last time. I can handle him, and he's only one man."

"You're worried about her safety."

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. Ten million dollars did not make up for twenty million pounds, but neither did a woman dying unnecessarily when he had the ability to extend some protection to her.

And he'd been impressed with her, despite himself. It was clear from Gabriel's expression that the younger man had been as well.

"Very well, I will see to it that we keep an eye on her."

"Thank you."

"In return, I'd like you to go to France for two weeks when Richard is released."

"No."

"Gabriel, this was not a request."

"Too bad, then fire me," Gabriel replied levelly. "I'm not going."

Sherlock shifted, sitting forward.

"While I'm glad you're no longer worried about him, I would rather not be unduly incautious. Your brother is a violent man."

"I know," Gabriel said, gesturing to his left cheek and the scar. "Believe me. I know. But I'm not going to run and hide anymore, not from him. I am who I am. What does it matter what he thinks? I'm not going to change because he doesn't like it. And I know you're not going to fire me or not have Mrs. Hudson watched over because I won't run off to France. Any other time, sure, Sherlock, I like France. But I'm not hiding anymore."

Sherlock pursed his lips but then gave a single nod.

"Now, you can come get your bloody alligator and go, because it's three am and _some_ of us consider that to be an unreasonable hour to be woken up by stuffed toy lizards."

"Oh, you can keep it," Sherlock assured him. "A reminder of a job well done, perhaps."

Gabriel snorted but let him out without further protest, and Sherlock went back up to his flat in a thoughtful mood, watching the city from his balcony and thinking of a seventeen year old boy at the symphony alone on his birthday and a sixty year old woman learning to breathe more easily for the first time in decades and wondering who, if anyone, would be the next person to surprise and impress him like they each had.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** One last chapter before I go on vacation for a few days! I'm on the road all day tomorrow, so expect nothing then, but there will probably be something up while I'm away. I've been spoiling you guys like crazy, though! And myself, I must admit, because I do love to do this ;) And you spoil me with your reviews. So everyone is happy. Next stop: Canada!

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><p>Sherlock pulled his phone out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket when it buzzed faintly, frowning because he wasn't expecting any calls, but felt a fleeting relief when the display read "Call from Gabriel Mitchell" rather than "Call from Mycroft Holmes". If interrupted, he expected it to be Mycroft, who generally had some idea what Sherlock was up to, if not the specifics. He liked to remind Sherlock, obliquely, that money and possessions belonging to others were their property. Sherlock liked to counter this by pointing out that Mycroft worked for the government. His very job, therefore, was tantamount to theft. At least Sherlock was honest about what he did. Well, with himself. Not with the police or many other people.<p>

Still, he was busy and the job in Switzerland was demanding his full attention. But he'd left Gabriel in charge in London, as per usual, so the call meant something required more than Gabriel's attention. Not good news, perhaps, but hopefully news which could be dealt with remotely, and preferably via email, which required less tedious chitchat with whatever parties were involved.

"Yes, Gabriel, what is it?" Sherlock answered smoothly, gesturing to Simone to continue working, moving away from the desk in his hotel suite where their plans and laptops were spread out. She glanced at him and nodded, absently tucking her tight black curls behind her ears before bending over the blueprints again, dark eyes focused.

"Oooooh, no, _so_ sorry!" an unpleasantly and utterly familiar voice said from the other end of the line, sounding far, far too chipper and entertained for Sherlock's liking and he felt the sudden apprehension hit his stomach like a rock, managing to cover it only with years of practiced eased.

"Want another try?" Jim continued. "Three guesses, Sherlock. You're down one already. Come on, give it a go."

Sherlock's hand tightened around his phone and he sucked in a deep and silent breath, then turned back to Simone, who looked up at the motion. With an abrupt gesture, he pointed her out of the room. She gave him a questioning look, but Sherlock glared, shaking his head, and she nodded, moving quickly, leaving him suddenly alone.

"Jim," Sherlock growled, ignoring the uncomfortably warm feeling in his palms, keeping the uneasiness out of his voice but letting the irritation come through in full, masking everything else. He kept his heart calm through an effort, _almost_ succeeding in stopping his mind from careening down countless pathways as to what had gone wrong, what Jim was doing with Gabriel's phone.

With Gabriel.

He should have known, he told himself, he should have _known._ Jim had let up at intervals on his fascination with Gabriel but had never backed off altogether, never lost interest. Sherlock had eventually settled on the other man simply being fascinated by something that Sherlock kept close to him, something that was forbidden. He'd tried to woo Gabriel away more than once, with promises of better pay, more luxuries, a larger flat, and the last time, Gabriel had told Jim he was certain Sherlock would let him go in exchange for Sebastian.

That had stopped all further advances.

So they'd thought.

He felt cold now, because Jim was not given to self-control and enjoyed getting what he wanted particularly if he had to put up a fight for it.

And Gabriel would have fought.

"Where is Gabriel?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice cool, measured, belying the panic that surged through his veins, driven hard by adrenalin.

"Oh, come now, Sherlock, is that any way to greet an old friend? We haven't spoken in ages," not true, it had been three weeks, "and this is what you give me? No 'hello, Jim, how are you? So good to talk to you again? How's the weather in London?' Well, as to _that_, it's raining, if you can believe it. I know, shocking, isn't it? And I'm doing quite well, thank you for asking – except you didn't – but that's more than I can say for your puppy. He's looking a bit pale if you ask me, but you'd know more about pale than I would."

Jim laughed, as though he'd said something witty and Sherlock repressed a snarl.

"Let me speak to him."

"Hmm, well, I would, you see, Sherlock, but he's not really in a position to talk right now. Oh, don't _worry_, I can practically hear it through the line! I haven't laid a finger on him, I promise. Pinkie swear, Sherlock!"

Sherlock snarled to himself – of course Jim wouldn't lay a finger on him, he'd leave that to Sebastian, or someone else.

"Oh, really, you think I'd have him hurt?" Jim said, judging the quality of the brief silence. "I'm wounded, I really am, Sherlock. Why would I hurt your puppy? I know how much you love him. Always sad to see when someone has to tend to an injured pet, isn't it? But he's quite unconscious right now. Oh, don't _look_ like that, Sherlock! Anaesthesiologists are well trained at this sort of thing, I understand. The nurse or whatever she was told me he'd be awake any moment now, though. I don't know how they judge these things, I really don't. One of those mysteries of the craft, I suppose."

"Jim. What did you have done to him."

"Me? _Me!_ Sherlock, you have no idea what that does to me! How can you not trust me, after all these years? I haven't done anything to him. He was shot."

At this, Sherlock nearly lost his grip on the phone, reminding himself harshly that Jim had just said Gabriel was going to wake up.

But in what kind of condition?

"Don't worry so much! It's not good for the complexion, you know. And you're far, far too pretty to be letting yourself go, especially over _worrying_. He was shot in the knee. He'll be fine, complete recovery, no complications, blah, blah, blah. So they assure me. Although I'm not sure why me, they seem to actually _believe_ I'm his cousin, I suppose it's the hair, it's the same colour, and the height, but the eyes – "

"Jim. Who shot him."

"Oh, come _on_! You're so predictable! 'Jim, what did you do?' 'Jim, who shot him?' Where are the interesting questions, Sherlock! Such as, how did Henry Hudson's people find Martha Hudson and why were they at all looking?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting himself sink onto the leather sofa, holding his head in his free hand.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"Oh, no idea!" Jim laughed. "Not _my_ problem, Sherlock! I'm just here keeping an eye on the puppy in case he decides to become a police dog and tell them all about me. Morphine can do strange things to the mind, you know. Well, you wouldn't quite know about that, but cocaine is not so far off, is it?"

The police. Sherlock hadn't thought of that yet and he screwed his eyes shut, berating himself, trying to keep up. Gabriel had been shot, probably defending Mrs. Hudson against one of her ex-husband's people, he was alive, but she might not be, and of course the police would want to talk to someone who'd been shot. All gunshot injuries were reported to the police.

"Oh, there he is!" Jim exclaimed. "Hello, puppy, welcome back. Someone would _love_ to talk to you. Go on, say hello."

"Hmm?" Sherlock heard from the other end of the line and felt his heart stutter for a moment at the sound of Gabriel's voice – albeit Gabriel's very drugged and groggy voice.

"Can you say 'Sherlock'?" Jim asked, as though speaking to a small baby.

He heard something, holding his phone with a white-knuckled grip.

"Oh, fine," Jim said, but it sounded as though this were directed at Gabriel. "I'll play nurse. I'm giving him water, Sherlock, so that you don't panic over there and decide to have me shot."

There was another pause and then Gabriel managed to say:

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, slumping back against the couch cushions.

"Ooh, got to ring off, Sherlock, sorry. The police just saw that he's awake and they don't waste any time. I suggest you don't, either. Right now, it's just a flatfoot, but this is going to get heated very quickly."

He hung up and Sherlock was on his feet almost before the signal had been cut off, striding through the room, out the door, down the corridor to Simone's suite, knocking crisply on the door.

"Boss?" she asked, opening the door, peering at him with no small amount of apprehension.

"Who do you need to do this, if not me?" he asked.

To her credit, she asked for no explanations, although she did hesitate a moment out of shock, and then another to think.

"Charles," she said firmly.

"He'll be here in three hours," Sherlock promised her. "I'm back in London. Don't ring unless it's an emergency."

"Right," she said, obvious confusion and concern in her voice, but he was already striding back to his suite, ringing Charles and going for his passports once the door had closed behind him.

* * *

><p>It was the longest two hour flight of his life, sitting in business class, trying not to check the time on his phone every two minutes, trying to ignore the flight attendant's attempts to make him feel more comfortable, since she obviously thought he was anxious about flying itself, then waiting impatiently at the EU passport control line, even though this moved more swiftly than the other line. Gerald was there, thankfully, and Sherlock settled into the back seat of the car, watching the London rain streak the tinted windows, tapping one foot impatiently against the floor, pressing a gloved fist against his lips.<p>

There were too many questions without answers, too many unknown variables, and Jim was thrown into the mix.

Gerald dropped him at the main entrance to St. Mary's and Sherlock strode in, finding Gabriel's room number from the information desk and heading up. This wouldn't do, he told himself as he waited for the lift, trying not to tap his hands in his pockets impatiently, trying not to chew on his lower lip. He'd have to have Gabriel moved to a private hospital as soon as possible.

He ignored the on-duty nurses on the short-term care ward, but was stopped short for a moment by the presence of two police officers, a uniformed constable outside of the room and a plain clothes officer inside, a slightly older man, steely grey hair and cool blue eyes to match, with "detective" stamped all over him. He may as well have had it tattooed to his forehead. Sherlock hesitated only a moment, evaluating his options – "boss" wasn't going to get him through the door, not with the Met there, not without a lot of suspicion about why the boss of a man injured by a gunshot was showing up for a visit.

"Partner" would, though. Particularly "frantic partner" which would require only a small amount of acting on Sherlock's part.

He nearly ran in, ignoring the constable's surprised attempt to stop him, brushing past the man who had clearly not been doing a decent job if Sherlock had managed to take him unawares, making a rapid assessment of the detective, who looked equally surprised, and of Gabriel, who was conscious, thankfully, but glassy-eyed from the morphine and looking confused, probably trying to respond to the detective's questions without actually giving anything away.

Sherlock dispensed of Gabriel's efforts to keep himself afloat in the conversation by crossing the room in a single stride, grabbing one of his hands and leaning down to press a kiss against his forehead, closing his own eyes for show, although the relief was not at all feigned. Jim had made himself scarce – not surprising, given the presence of the police.

"Oh, thank God, Gabe, are you all right? Oh my God, thank God you're alive. What happened? Jim said you were shot. Are you going to be okay?" He rounded on the detective, who was still looking startled at Sherlock's sudden and dramatic entrance. Sherlock kept hold of one of Gabriel's hands, feeling a weak grip returned – still groggy from the anaesthetic and the painkillers and probably in desperate need of sleep rather than a police interrogation.

"You! Are you his doctor?" Sherlock demanded.

"No," the man said smoothly, pulling out his badge and showing it to Sherlock. "Detective Inspector Geoff Lestrade. And you are?"

"His partner!" Sherlock snapped. "What the hell happened to him? Why aren't you out finding the man who shot him?"

"Who said it was a man?"

Sherlock stared at him, showing surprise, then scowled.

"_Person_, then!" he snapped. "Does it matter?"

"It might, if you have some idea why your partner was in a flat on Baker Street where he doesn't live and why he also shot someone there."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, taking the time of displaying a reaction to process the new information. He turned back to Gabriel, leaning down, putting a hand on his cheek, then smoothing his hair for the benefit of the DI, using the opportunity to evaluate the younger man's eyes. Gabriel was still too drugged and looking stunned that Sherlock was there at all.

"Gabe, love, what were you doing at Martha's? Is she all right?"

Gabriel licked his lips and Sherlock cursed silently to himself, snagging a plastic cup from the wheeling table beside the bed and filling it from the bottle of water that had been left there. He held it to the young man's lips and let him sip from it carefully.

"Wasn't home," Gabriel managed. "Break in."

"See, there you are, Inspector," Sherlock snapped, looking over his shoulder. "Hardly his fault! Go find the person who did this! Some maniac is running loose with a gun and shot my partner!"

"Mister … Look, sir, what is your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes and don't tell me I'm bloody lying because that's what it is!"

"Mister Holmes," Lestrade said after only a fraction of a second's pause. "It still doesn't explain why your partner was in Martha Hudson's flat, nor why he was carrying a gun."

"He's got a certificate!" Sherlock snapped back. This was actually true. He'd forged it himself.

"That doesn't explain why he was carting it about to an empty flat."

"Oh, so, it's a problem that _he's_ done this and got himself shot for the trouble of trying to stop someone breaking into a friend's flat? Why not find the person who broke in and talk to him – or her, fine, if you want to insist, I'm sure there are loads of women doing break ins nowadays, yes?"

"Well, we'd quite like to talk to him, Mister Holmes, but we can't find him. You'd think it would be easy to find someone who was bleeding from a gunshot wound, but you'd be amazed at how many places a person can go to take care of that without coming to our attention."

Sherlock really wouldn't, because he knew, and he had several of them himself, one even in his building, all sterile and staffed when needed by fully qualified and licensed doctors and nurses, of course. No need to rely on other people's lax standards or questionable medical personnel.

"So instead you're here harassing Gabe when he's been shot and is obviously not in any condition to talk to you? If he was in Martha Hudson's flat, it's because she asked him to check in on it for her. She was probably visiting her sister or something, I don't know!"

"And where were you?"

"Geneva. Business."

"What sort of business?"

"Real estate, but I hardly see how that matters!"

They were interrupted by a doctor coming in, frowning at them, his expression all authority derived from his white coat and stethoscope around his neck.

"Oh good, finally," Sherlock said, unbalancing the situation in his favour again. "I'm his partner. You need to tell the police to leave. Gabe needs to rest."

The doctor appraised him quickly, crossing his arms, but nodded, switching his gaze to Lestrade. Sherlock judged that the other man couldn't have been much older than he himself, and resolved to call Mike Stamford as soon as possible. He needed a doctor he knew and whom he could trust.

"He does need to rest, Inspector," the doctor said. "And he's not much use to you in this condition. Come back tomorrow."

"This can't wait," Lestrade insisted.

"It's going to have to," the doctor replied. "He's just had surgery for a gunshot injury. He's still nearly high on morphine and disoriented from the anaesthetic. You won't get anything useful from him anyway. Not today."

The DI hesitated, then sighed, pulling out a business card and holding it toward Sherlock. Sherlock took it and pocketed it without looking at it.

"If you think of anything that might help us, give me a call," he said in a tone that told Sherlock he knew full well this wouldn't happen.

"I will," Sherlock promised, lying. "And take your other officer, unless Gabe's under arrest."

"For the time being, he isn't," Lestrade said. "But he shouldn't leave the city."

"Like this? Where would he go?"

"Geneva?" Lestrade suggested, then left, pulling the door shut behind him. Sherlock glared – the Met was hiring far too many intelligent people these days. It was unpleasant to know that some of the police officers out there had brains they were actually using. It made them dangerous.

Sherlock looked back at the doctor.

"What's his prognosis?"

"Well, it was a through-and-through just below the right knee, so he's actually lucky. The bullet broke his fibula and did some damage to his tibia, but the majority of it is muscular, which is never good news, but unavoidable. We repaired all of the damage, and the breaks will heal cleanly, but he's going to need some extensive physio for the muscle trauma and it will take time to recover. He should have full use of his leg, though, there seems to be no nerve damage, although we won't know for sure until some of the swelling from the surgery's gone down and the anaesthetic's completely worn off and we can do some response tests. For now, the best thing he can do is rest."

"Of course," Sherlock agreed. "Can I stay?" he asked as though he might actually consider leaving.

"Yes, of course," the doctor replied. "If he needs anything, the nurses will see to it."

"Wait, your name?"

"Doctor Woodhall."

"Thank you, Doctor Woodhall," Sherlock said, and the surgeon nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. At the click of the door, Sherlock exhaled a silent breath and let go of the panicked partner persona, forcing some of his real apprehension out along with it.

He turned back to Gabriel, who was still holding his hands, like a link to consciousness. And he was struggling against the drugs and the injury.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Don't know," Gabriel managed and Sherlock felt a stab of fear. "No. Cheryl. So –" he paused, screwing his eyes shut, trying to concentrate. "So they wouldn't get her through me. Ah–"

"Does your leg hurt?"

"Yeah," Gabriel managed through gritted teeth. "Ugh. Who – how'd you know?"

"Jim."

"What?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Don't worry about that, Gabriel. You do need to rest, as the doctor said. I'll get a hold of Cheryl and make sure Mrs. Hudson is all right. You sleep. I'll stay here."

Gabriel managed a nod.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"You got shot keeping Mrs. Hudson from her ex-husband's people. You shouldn't be sorry. But whoever shot you will be, once I find him."


	8. Chapter 8

Three days. Gabriel was fairly certain it had only been three days, judging by how many different shirts Sherlock had gone through, but if he'd gone by the state of the room, it might have been three weeks.

Sherlock had taken over the hospital room so thoroughly that Gabriel was certain, in a slightly confused way, that it was no longer _his_ hospital room, but Sherlock's. There were files everywhere, as well as his laptop and Gabriel's own, for some reason. Newspapers, too, but these were folded properly and set aside, as though they'd been purchased as an after-thought and were not useful. There was a little wheeling table that Gabriel felt sure in a morphine-haze sort of way was for his food tray, not for Sherlock's papers and a scatter of pens.

He'd had a moment of disorientation the first time he'd really awoken, certain he'd been moved to Sherlock's office and found it a strange place to recuperate. The combination of the morphine and the entirely unusual situation had caused a lot of initial confusion, and he'd been puzzled for some time as to why Sherlock always seemed to be holding his hand. He appreciated the concern, and of course they were friends and had been for eight years now, but this was a bit strange, even for Sherlock.

It had taken him awhile to realize they were romantic partners now, at least from the point of view of the medical staff – unfortunately – and the police, who seemed to be very much enjoying hanging about and were well practiced at suspicion. Even though Gabriel managed to tell them the truth, that he had gone round to check on Martha Hudson's flat when she'd called him to tell him she'd noticed a few strangers hanging about the area. He left out the bit about her being there when he'd arrived, but not about the man who'd broken in, armed, obviously not anticipating Gabriel's presence. Gabriel remembered – hazily – being shot and shooting back, but nothing more.

It had panicked him on more than one occasion that he couldn't remember where Mrs. Hudson was, and Sherlock had kept reminding him, when the police weren't there, that Gabriel had had the presence of mind to call Cheryl and have her take the older woman away before the police and the ambulance scooped him up.

It had only really sunk in when Sherlock had called her and let Gabriel speak with her for a few minutes. After that, it became easier to remember that she was well and safe, even if he had no idea where she was.

Unfortunately, he realized this preoccupation had been distracting him from his leg, which hurt despite the painkillers, but was not infected, according to the doctors. This was normal pain, they assured him. After all, he'd been shot. And had surgery. It was to be expected.

_He_ certainly hadn't been expecting it.

On the day he'd been shot, he had not looked at his calendar and noted the "get shot" on the to-do list under the reminders to do more mundane things, such as emailing his sister, buying milk, checking with one of their book-keepers about who owed them money this week that was significantly outstanding, and opening another Swiss bank account.

"Is there some reason you're here?" he asked a purple silk shirted Sherlock. The other man put down the file he'd been reading, tapping a pen thoughtfully against his lips, and regarded Gabriel with his grey eyes.

"Because you won't let me move you to a private hospital where I could actually leave you with some assurance that you're getting decent care and the knowledge that I could come and go whenever I pleased and not be questioned or have you questioned by the police while you're on opiate derivatives."

"I'm getting fine care here," Gabriel protested.

"Hmph," Sherlock said in disagreement. "If it cannot be Mike Stamford, then it should at least be somewhere not covered by the NHS. I'm not paying anything for this room because your insurance covers private rooms. It seems unnecessary."

Gabriel shook his head.

"What I meant is, is there some reason you insist on sitting on the bed with me? There are chairs."

Sherlock gave him a cool, appraising look, then turned back to whatever it was he was reading.

"You're my partner," he said. "And you were shot. I'm overwhelmed with concern and can't stand to be away from you for even a moment. Et cetera. This is more convincing. Also, the bed is substantially more comfortable than the chairs."

Gabriel sighed, knowing he lost. He so very rarely won against Sherlock that he made sure to remember each time he did, and having been shot really did seem to have awakened whatever protectiveness Sherlock had for him. He supposed it was a victory that Sherlock had brought him his own pyjamas from his flat, so he didn't have to wear the hospital gown. He was probably not going to get any more quarter.

"You're ruining all of my chances with the nurses, you know," he pointed out.

At this, Sherlock looked up in surprise.

"Really?" he asked, then his grey eyes lit up. "Ah, the resistance to being moved is explained. Which one is it?"

"The blond one."

"Julian?"

"No, the blond woman. Sandra."

Sherlock evaluated him for a moment, then grinned, turning back to his work. Gabriel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sherlock was not as uninterested as he pretended to be, although Gabriel did understand the demands of the job superseding anything else. He himself had dated only here and there, mostly women, but a few men within the last few years.

And Sherlock had checked up on every single one of them. Gabriel didn't mind this, because he made a point of doing so for each of the encounters Sherlock had. He hadn't told Sherlock, but of course Sherlock knew. Gabriel had the sense Sherlock thought it was acceptable to have someone looking out for him without being overbearing about it.

"Well, far be it for me to jeopardize your romantic conquests."

"Does this mean you're going to get off of my bed?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked. "No."

Gabriel sighed and settled down a bit, feeling a bit bored, which he understood was supposed to be a good sign, but he was bored and tired and on morphine and his leg still hurt in its weird boot-like cast that came off so they could check his wound and change the dressings. He'd seen it and it was an extraordinary bluish-purple colour around the edges and nearly black from the bruise where he'd actually been hit. It was most unappealing, and reminded him far too much of how he'd looked after Richard had attacked him.

"What are you doing anyway?" Gabriel asked, wondering where the telly remote was, and if Sherlock would get annoyed if he watched something. This was all the petty irritations of having a partner without actually having the romance, just someone who took up room in his hospital bed for no good reason.

"Looking for a doctor for you."

"I have a doctor," Gabriel protested. "That Underwood or whatever his name is."

"Woodhall. And while he's a decent surgeon, he works here. I mean someone to see to you once you're released tomorrow."

"What's wrong with Mike?"

Sherlock looked up again and pulled a face.

"He's on vacation. With his family," he replied, his voice dripping with disdain, as though this was the most uncalled for action in the history of human civilisation. From Sherlock's point of view, it probably was. Because it was inconvenient for him.

"No," Sherlock continued. "I need someone without a family who works for me full time, because you are amazingly adept at getting yourself into trouble. And I need someone who can keep a full-time watch on Mrs. Hudson as well."

"So, what, you want a doctor who also happens to be a bodyguard?"

"Precisely."

"Bit of a specific order, isn't it?"

"Not if you know where to look," Sherlock replied with one of his small, knowing smiles. "Army doctor."

Gabriel blinked.

"More specifically, army surgeon."

"And we're just going to haul off to Iraq and hire one, I suppose?"

"Not Iraq. Afghanistan."

"Oh, that sounds loads better, all right."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Obviously we're not going there. You've already been shot once. I don't need you involved in a bombing or some such thing. Does the name Harriet Watson mean anything to you?"

Gabriel sighed.

"Sherlock, the name Gabriel Mitchell hardly means anything to me right now."

Sherlock gave him a surprised look that was completely feigned.

"It's your name, you know. It's on that little medical ID bracelet of yours."

"Thanks," Gabriel replied, rolling his eyes. "That was by way of being an exaggeration. No, I don't recognize the name. Is she an army surgeon?"

"No, she is a bank teller and an alcoholic. She also owes us a fairly significant amount of money, I see. Significant on her scale, of course."

Gabriel tried to keep up with the jump and wished he wasn't on morphine, then remembered why he was, because of the pain. He sighed and just waited for Sherlock to explain. It was easier that way.

"Her brother, Doctor John Watson, on the other hand, _is_ an army surgeon. Recently invalided back to London from Afghanistan following injury sustained in an attack. He was shot, I see here. So the two of you have something in common."

Sherlock gave Gabriel one of his bright smiles that always made Gabriel feel a bit cold.

"An unattached, out of work army doctor with a sister who owes us money. I believe I'll have to pay him a visit."

"Not without me, you won't," Gabriel snapped.

Sherlock paused in tapping the pen against his lips and gave Gabriel a questioning look.

"I may not be your business partner, but I'm close enough to, and if you're hiring someone who has to take care of me right now, I want to be there. Plus I'm sick of being trapped in this hospital. You don't get to go have fun without me."

"I don't see why not," Sherlock replied.

"Because then I might think you don't love me," Gabriel snickered and slouched down some more, leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder, snuggling up against him. Sherlock looked at the ceiling and sighed.

"Oh, really," he snapped dryly.

"You started it," Gabriel pointed out, sitting up again with a grin. "Why don't you make yourself useful as the love of my life and get me a coffee? Not that swill from the cafeteria, either. I'm dying for a good brew."

"You are absolutely insufferable."

"And you're the one who hired me."

Gabriel waited and Sherlock finally sighed.

"Fine," he agreed. "If you promise not to get shot or into further trouble while I'm out."

"I'll do my best. If the police come by, I'll pretend to be asleep."

"And if Jim comes by, try to stick him with a needle. I'm not pleased that he's made himself scarce. He's going to think I owe him for calling me."

"You think he'll come back here?"

"No," Sherlock grunted, getting off of the bed and Gabriel immediately took up all of the space again, which _was_ his, by rights. "Although he's more likely to if I'm not here."

Gabriel nodded; this was spot on. Jim never liked dealing with both of them together, and seemed to think Gabriel might actually be intimidated by him, which was not the case.

As Sherlock was putting his coat on, the door opened and one of the nurses slipped in. Gabriel grinned; it was Sandra, and the first time that Sherlock wouldn't be hanging about making a nuisance of himself while she was there.

But he paused to give her a warning and evaluating glare, his expression cold. As if he couldn't at all tell that she wasn't going to hurt Gabriel. He'd probably run background checks on anyone who so much as came onto this floor, checks so extensive and detailed they would have made the police envious. Combining that with his ability to read people meant he knew full well that she was no danger, but liked to be the one discomfiting others, making them believe he was in charge even in places where he was not.

"I'll be back in fifteen minutes," he said and made it almost a threat.

Sandra raised her eyebrows at Gabriel when the door clicked shut, then checked his IV bags and lines quickly.

"He's a bit protective, your boyfriend," she commented.

Gabriel sighed.

"He's not my boyfriend."

She paused in her work, glancing down at him, and he watched the surprised then apologetic expression flash across her features, darkening her already dark blue eyes momentarily.

"Oh, sorry," she said. "Is partner the term?"

"Well, that would be more accurate," Gabriel replied. "But even more so would be 'boss'."

At this, the surprise increased and she blinked, letting her hand fall away from her work.

"It was for the benefit of the Met, so he could get in to see me, and so he could continue to see me and pretty much set up camp here. But romantic partner? No. Although probably best you don't tell anyone, so he doesn't get kicked out."

She was silent for a moment, then regarded him thoughtfully, weighing him up.

"He's some boss, then," she commented.

"Oh, you have no idea."

She quirked her light eyebrows up, folding her arms lightly.

"Pretty sure my boss wouldn't do this for me."

"Well, perhaps 'boss' doesn't just cover it. Friends, too. But that doesn't get you in to see someone who's just been shot. 'Partner' does. And no one likes to question that, lest they appear intolerant or prejudiced."

"I see," she murmured, turning back to her work, a small smile playing on her lips. "Not your boyfriend, then."

"Definitely not."

"Hmm," Sandra replied noncommittally, for all the world appearing to check his vitals readings and then adjust something on the IV line, but Gabriel did not at all miss the pleased expression on her face, not least because he was looking for it.

* * *

><p>Sherlock waited three days after Gabriel was released from the hospital, to give the younger man time to adjust to being home, to being on painkillers that weren't morphine, and to get used to moving about on the blasted crutches. These made him feel somewhat clumsy at first, but longer he went without morphine, the easier the coordination became.<p>

Gerald drove them out to what seemed like the very edge of London, the bleakness of their surroundings at the veteran's housing accentuated by the bleakness of the day – grey sky, grey concrete, grey and brown buildings. How anyone recovered in this sort of setting was beyond Gabriel. It seemed more like a recipe for depression than recuperation.

"Bit grim," he commented.

"Mm," Sherlock replied vaguely. "Well, this is what taxpayer-funded living will allow."

Gabriel frowned; even the house he'd grown up in, which had been small and unfortunately populated by his older brother, had been cheerier than this.

They made their way slowly through the maze of buildings to the address Sherlock had for this Doctor Watson, and Gabriel noted that he almost fit right in on his crutches, but their clothing – tailored suites and expensive winter coats and polished shoes – set them apart. It as an odd feeling, being evaluated by strangers for his injury and his appearance at the same time. Everyone here seemed to understand that something had happened to Gabriel, and he even saw one or two people correctly identify that he'd been shot, but he remained a stranger, judged as such because of his clothing.

They came to the end of a very dingy, narrow hallway with one or two lamps burnt out, leaving patches of uneven dimness. It was eerily quiet as though entirely unoccupied or as though the inhabitants had nothing to do but sit or sleep in the silence, maintaining it, cultivating it so that it became an entity of its own.

Sherlock rapped smartly on one of the identical-looking particleboard doors, the sound only slightly muffled by his leather glove. They waited, listening, and after a moment, heard some shuffling about inside and a voice calling:

"Just a minute!"

The door was opened shortly thereafter by a man in his late thirties, shorter than Gabriel, with very short dark blond hair, brown eyes that instantly narrowed in suspicion at the two well-dressed strangers watching him, military bearing, shoulders drawn back, holding himself straight, standing too easily for that limp to be real, or at least really painful, despite the cane in his right hand that was pressed firmly into the floor.

"Well?" the doctor snapped, eyes flashing between the two of them. "Who are you?"

"Doctor John Watson?" Sherlock asked. "I wonder if you might be so kind as to give us a moment of your time? I have a business proposition for you."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** John!


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** dedicated to **HOS70** and all of you other John fans out there (I count myself among your numbers). Also: Greatest. Vacation. Ever. (uh, that would be my vacation, John doesn't get one). Enjoy!

* * *

><p>John stared at the blank word document.<p>

Somehow, he was supposed to come up with something to say.

But what?

What was there to say, when nothing happened? Other than "nothing happens to me", which he felt he couldn't post on a regular basis, because it seemed self-pitying and sort of pointless to keep repeating it, too. Saying it didn't change the facts.

He hesitated, then typed:

**The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

He typed it in every blog document he wrote, as a reminder, an assertion. But even that felt like a lie.

He didn't feel like a doctor anymore.

He felt useless, extraneous, forgotten. When he checked the news, life had gone on without him. Whenever someone commented on his blog posts, something had happened to them. Bill Murray, the nurse who'd saved his life when he'd been shot had gotten married and had a steady job in the emergency department at St. Mary's. Tricia, the doctor who'd saved his life – he'd had a good team, he reflected – was still saving lives in Afghanistan. Harry was up for a promotion at work, which was surprising, given her alcoholism, but he supposed she was an old hat at hiding it. The lads he'd played rugby with were still the same, but John had felt completely alien going to the pub with them – he'd moved on, and they hadn't.

And then the world had moved on without him.

He stared at the blank white page, surrounded by blank, off-white walls.

John put his hands on the keyboard and then glanced down at the open drawer from which he'd just pulled his laptop. His gun was in there and he pushed the drawer shut quickly, reminding himself to put it back in its shoebox, the new home he'd recently given it.

When he'd thought too much about using it.

He'd pulled it out last night, after there'd been another one of those serial suicides, but he wasn't entirely sure why he'd done so. It just made him feel better having it loaded and closer at hand than unloaded and in the box in the tiny closet of his tiny room that they optimistically called a flat. As though a proper flat lacked any differentiation between his bedroom (a narrow bed in the corner), his sitting room (his desk and an old chair and footstool) and his kitchen (little more than a hot plate and microwave and an ancient electric kettle).

He sat back with a sigh, the only sound in the otherwise tiny flat.

He couldn't really blog about having taken his gun back out – he wasn't at all supposed to have it, and if Tricia found out he did, she'd probably kill him. Or at least seriously injure him. And she'd manage it from Afghanistan as well. And Harry would probably panic. And his mother, too. He didn't need the drama.

He thought of the psychiatrist who was across the hall and two doors down. Well, who _had been_ across the hall and two doors down, and was now six feet under ground. He thought of that kid, what was his name, Mike Johnston, who'd taken all of his sleeping pills one afternoon and run himself a bath, falling asleep and drowning.

He thought of Jamie and then sighed, putting his head in his hands and staring at the wall through his fingers. He remembered holding up forks in front of his eyes as a child, playing with Harry, pretending the tines were prison cell bars. He felt like he was looking through cell bars now and drew his hands away.

He looked back at the laptop and made a single entry on the page:

.

It was pretty much how he felt and all he could think of.

With a sigh, John closed the laptop and put it back in the drawer, wondering what to do. He could always catch the tube into London proper, walk around, but by definition, going for a walk required walking, and his leg was particularly bothering him today. And being in London depressed him more, reminded him of what he didn't have, what he couldn't do. No job, almost no income, no home of his own.

No purpose.

He tried to get himself to feel guilty for being ungrateful – at least he was alive. And there were people much worse off than him, he reminded himself. It was only his leg and his shoulder. And his leg didn't hurt when he stood, only when he walked.

The knock on the door was so unexpected and sudden that John jumped, reaching instinctively for the drawer where his gun lay, immediately wondering if this was why he'd taken it out, some sort of prescience. Who would come around here to see him? Everyone he knew, all three people who visited, always let him know they were coming first.

He opened the drawer and pulled the gun out, settling it into his belt against the small of his back. He realized whoever it was might be wondering if he was there, and called out:

"Just a minute!"

He felt a flash of irritation at the interruption as he grasped his cane, then paused.

What interruption?

He hadn't been doing anything.

John scowled to himself, limping to the door, and pulling it open, fully expecting one of the tedious medical staff – men and women who had jobs doing what he had trained for so long to do and now couldn't. They were always on him about something – write your blog, join a group, find a hobby, do some volunteer work, anything they could think of.

He blinked and stared at the two strange men who stood in the corridor, although towered might have been a better word for them, at least compared to John. The slightly shorter one, on crutches with an injury to his right leg, probably at the knee, John noted, because of the way he was holding his leg and the outline of the boot under his trousers, was about six feet. The other one was probably six-two, six-three.

They were probably the most unlikely pair John could imagine at the moment and stood out from the dim and dingy hallway like a couple of polished gems in the dirt. The shorter one, who also looked younger, had light brown hair with only the faintest of curls in it at the very ends, but startlingly green eyes and a bright grin, despite his crutches and obvious discomfort. The taller one was astonishingly pale, with pale grey eyes to match but a shock of hair so dark brown it verged on black without quite making it there, curly and thick. They were both well dressed in dark wool overcoats, scarves, and what were obviously tailored trousers, probably full suits, John guessed, and immaculately shined leather shoes.

They looked like they'd walked off of some movie set or something.

"Well?" John snapped, eyes flashing between the two of them. "Who are you?"

"Doctor John Watson?" the taller man asked. "I wonder if you might be so kind as to give us a moment of your time? I have a business proposition for you."

John stared at him a moment, then frowned.

"Business proposition?" he demanded. "What do you mean? Who the hell are you anyway?"

The older man twitched his eyebrows upward, looking mildly disapproving, and the younger man's grin widened a bit, even as he shifted on his crutches.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my business partner, Gabriel Mitchell."

John cast a quick glance at Mitchell again, then refocused on the taller man, glaring.

"What, is that supposed to be some kind of joke?" he demanded.

The taller man looked surprised, but, to John's shock, the shorter one stared at him a moment, then started to laugh. He raised his left hand, still holding his crutch, pressing it to his face as his shoulders shook, then titled his head back, his laughter echoing down the hall, a wholly unexpected sound in this dreary place.

The older man sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, yes," he muttered, but not to John. The younger man, Mitchell, leaned against the wall, shaking off his left crutch, pressing his left hand over his face, still laughing. John stared, wondering what the hell was so funny, and then Mitchell managed to look up, green eyes bright with unshed tears of mirth. He grinned one of his brilliant grins at John, shaking his head, unable to stop laughing.

"Do you know, in the eight years I've known him, only one other person has ever, _ever_ dared to ask if his name was a joke?" Mitchell enquired, still laughing, and the other man, this Holmes, looked impatient but resigned.

"Yes, very funny, Gabriel," Holmes said, rolling his eyes again, which made the younger man dissolve into helpless laughter again.

"And was that you?" John asked coolly. Mitchell looked up, then grinned at Holmes.

"He's good," he said, pointing at John, then looking at him again. "Very good. Yes. It was me. And no, it's not a joke, it really _is_ his name. I've seen his actual birth certificate and met his actual mother. He has a brother named Mycroft you know."

John stared at Mitchell, then at Holmes again.

"May we come in?" Holmes asked brusquely. "We will not intrude on your time longer than necessary."

_Yeah, because it must be so obvious that I have people lining up to see me_, John thought. Even though he hadn't said this out loud, he got the impression that Holmes had heard it, given the way his eyebrows twitched upward again. He had an extremely expressive face, John noted.

He stood back from the door and Holmes glared at his partner.

"Are you going to stand there laughing all afternoon or come inside where, presumably, Doctor Watson will let you sit down?"

The younger man retrieved his other crutch with the beginnings of practiced ease, still chuckling. The movement told John it hadn't been long since he'd been injured, maybe a week, but it probably wasn't just a break, because he had the look of someone who'd recently had surgery. As a surgeon – _former_ surgeon – John was familiar with that look. And he'd seen it on himself fairly recently, although not as recently as Mitchell.

Holmes strode in, looking around, which didn't take him much time, and Mitchell followed. John gestured the younger man into a chair and he sat, shaking off his crutches and lifting his leg onto the footstool, using his hands to help him, wincing as he moved. For a moment, his grin was gone as discomfort and pain flashed across his features, then he was smiling again. This had a disconcerting effect, because John wasn't used to injured people here smiling so much.

John gestured for Holmes to sit in the other chair, the one in front of the desk, but was waved off.

"You also have an injury, I note," Holmes said, giving John another quick evaluation. "Shouldn't you sit?"

John hesitated, then sat carefully, although his leg never really hurt when he was standing.

"What do you want?" he asked again.

Holmes took up a position against the wall near the door – not that this meant he was very far from either John or Mitchell at all, given the small size of the room. John suddenly felt self-conscious of the room, its dinginess, its blandness, especially given the vividness of his two strange, uninvited guests, the colours they had in their faces that stood out from the unremarkable colours of the room, even what John now thought of his own neutral colouring, dark blond hair, brown eyes, tanned skin. He was really all just different shades of the same colour, whereas these men were brightly contrasting, both with each other and just with themselves.

He was suddenly almost angry they were there, and had the idea that this "business proposition" would not be entirely pleasant. John fought down on a sudden feeling of interest as to what it might be though – it was different enough to be intriguing.

"As I said, I have a business proposition for you," Holmes answered, almost echoing some of John's thoughts. He gestured vaguely to Mitchell with one leather gloved hand. "You are a trained and experienced combat surgeon. You sized Gabriel up in the hallway and evaluated his injury. Tell me about it."

The statement was so much an instruction that John found himself answering without intending to.

"It's recent, given how he is on crutches, not quite used to them yet, sometime within the past week, I'd say. Given the size of that boot, which goes up just past the knee, the injury is to the knee itself, or just below, which likely means it's soft tissue, not just bone, because knee injuries are rarely just simple breaks. You're on some kind of heavy painkillers, not morphine, but prescription, but you're doing okay with them. Not something they'd prescribe for a break, but something they would give for muscle damage, because it hurts for much longer. You had surgery, I'm guessing, if it was soft tissue, so this wasn't just a simple thing. And if you hadn't had surgery, they'd have given you a proper cast, not a boot, so they need to take it off to get access to the incision, change your bandages and keep it clean, but also keep you from moving your leg or walking on it. Given the way you moved your leg to put it up, the injury is to the outside of the leg, just below the knee."

Mitchell and Holmes exchanged a glance, approval in both faces.

"Very well done, Doctor Watson," Holmes said. "Now, you're a man who follows the news – you noted that new serial suicide incident on your blog yesterday."

John saw Mitchell give a small roll of his eyes at this but was floored by the revelation that Holmes had not only found his blog but read it – but then realized that Holmes had found _him. _He went cold suddenly wondering how he'd been found, and why. They still hadn't explained that. And they were in his flat.

"Tell me," Holmes continued, acting utterly unaware of John's sudden discomfort. "What else has happened in London recently?"

"Um," John said, thinking furiously, feeling as though he was being tested. "There was that outage in the tubes the other day."

Holmes wave a hand, still wearing his gloves. John realized suddenly he hadn't offered either of them anything to drink, tea or water, then realized on top of that they this was a rather mundane or stupid thought. They were both armed – he could tell that and had noted it immediately, but his brain only thought to supply him with the notion that this was important now.

_Thanks_, he told himself.

"That was two days ago," Holmes commented. "Somewhat further back."

His grey eyes darted to Mitchell and John followed his gaze. Something about the younger man? But he didn't recognize the name, so it couldn't have involved him, could it?

"Well, um," John said. "There was that armoured car robbery last week, wasn't there?" He had the impression Mitchell was trying not to snicker. "And a shooting in Central London, something about a break in to a flat?"

At this, Holmes raised his eyebrows. John stared at him, then turned quickly to Mitchell.

"That was _you?_" he said, his hands twitching instinctively to go for his gun, but he repressed the movement savagely.

Mitchell nodded calmly, as though being shot was not particularly that astonishing or eventful. Holmes clapped his hands together once, expression gleeful, then pointed at John triumphantly.

"Well done!" he said again, grinning a suddenly brilliant grin that changed his face altogether, making him look a lot less intimidating but no less striking. "Incidentally, you needn't reach for your weapon while we're here. We have no intentions of hurting you, Doctor."

"Yes, why _are_ you here?" John snapped, using irritation to cover a sudden and sharp unease – how had the man known he was going for a gun? How had he known that John even _had_ a gun? "You haven't said."

"Of course you have a gun," Holmes said, entirely as though John had asked this question out loud. "A military man like you, shot and invalided home, would feel defenceless and helpless otherwise, and you're an expert marksman – read your file – and you wouldn't want to be cut off from everything you were before coming back here. Bad enough for you that you're no longer working, no need to be completely at the mercy of the doctors and the taxpayers who provide you with this so-called accommodation. The way you stand and the way you sat indicate that you're wearing the gun in the back of your belt – I hope for your sake that the safety is on or that the gun isn't loaded, although an unloaded gun does little good to anyone in an emergency, am I right?"

Stunned, John nodded slowly.

"As to why we are here, you have yourself answered your own question. You correctly analyzed Gabriel's injury, its location and its timing, and with only a modicum of prompting, you were able to determine _how_ it happened."

"But – surely you must have known how it happened and when and all of that," John protested. "Why did you need me to tell you that?"

"I didn't," Holmes replied. "I needed you to prove to me that you could. Doctor Watson, you find yourself in need of a change and of work that could allow you to be a doctor again, returning some meaning to this otherwise unessential and rather drab existence. I find myself in need of a doctor with combat training, a man who is both a competent doctor and surgeon as a well as an expert marksman, and who has no immediate family, no dependents or partner, I mean, no complications. And – happily for both of us – your sister, Harriet Watson, finds herself owing me quite a significant amount of money."


	10. Chapter 10

Holmes gave him a bright, cheery smile and John's blood froze. Mitchell was still smiling amiably, but the expression seemed abruptly out of place. Dangerous. John suddenly wondered why he hadn't noticed how young both of the men were compared to him – Holmes looked to be in his early thirties and Mitchell even younger, in his mid-twenties.

They were armed.

Harry owed them money.

And John was alone with them.

Yes, he also had a gun, but one gun against two was not good odds, and he was willing to bet that they were both also crack shots, because they struck him as men that would make a point of being so. He supposed he could yell for help and people would come running, but that didn't change the fact that two armed men were in his flat, between him and the door, between him and whoever else might come in.

Some instinct made him want to keep anyone else out of this. Maybe it could still be contained.

Maybe they'd just shoot him and leave, not hurt anyone else.

But what had Holmes just said? That they had no intentions of hurting him.

He swallowed, aware that almost no time had passed, mere seconds, and both men were still watching him with expressions that were far too friendly and bright for the situation. They looked more like they were delivering happy news than a veiled threat.

"How much does she owe you?" John asked carefully, keeping his voice level despite the sudden jump in his heart rate.

"Ten thousand pounds," Holmes replied.

John nearly choked, breath catching in his chest – and the other man had the gall to say this casually, as if it weren't a significant amount of money. John wanted to curse at the offhandedness but bit down on it, realizing that, for this man, ten thousand pounds probably _wasn't_ anything. Pocket change at best. He'd probably drop that amount on a suit or a bottle of wine without thinking about it.

John was suddenly livid – who were these two to come swanking in here with their expensive suits, talking about Harry's debt, when John lived in this tiny hovel on an army pension that barely allowed him one night out a every other week at best?

He forced himself to stay calm as much as he could, but couldn't quell the rage in the pit of his stomach, nor the fear.

"I don't have ten thousand pounds to repay you," he said, and heard the apology in his voice, hating it, but also feeling it.

What had Harry been thinking? He was suddenly furious with her, too, for dragging him into this, for her stupidity, her refusal to go to rehab, her treatment of Clara, her decision to get involved with men like Holmes and Mitchell for – what? Gambling? Money for alcohol? Both? If she had a gambling problem, John didn't know about it, but it wouldn't surprise him, he realized suddenly. Why not? She had an addictive personality – it could be anything.

Drugs, even.

"No," Holmes said smoothly. "Not drugs. At least, not from me. Nor Gabriel. Nor any of my people."

John was startled. How had he known what John was thinking – was he a bloody mind reader? But there were more pressing questions.

"What, then?" John managed.

"Gambling – you were right. Oh yes, it was quite visible on your face, Doctor Watson. Your sister has developed a penchant for poker, I understand, and she's actually quite skilled at it. When she's sober."

That was the crux of the problem, John thought. Harry wouldn't do something like this and stay sober. She didn't stay sober for much at all.

"And in regards to repayment, it's quite obvious you don't have the money, Doctor," Holmes said, still with an amiable smile, casting a quick glance around the tiny flat. John felt another flash of anger – who were they to judge him over this? He'd gone to war for his country, and he'd been injured and sent home. To this. While they stayed here, running money and God only knew what else.

"Nor are you actually responsible for your sister's debts, I imagine," Holmes continued.

John felt another stab of anger, combined with resentment.

"That's right, I'm not," he said hotly. "She's a grown woman. She has to take care of herself. And don't you dare go after Clara, or my mother. They won't have the money either."

Holmes gave him a quizzical look and Mitchell raised his eyebrows at John, shifting his position slightly. John didn't miss the flash of discomfort and dull pain in the other man's eyes – probably needed his painkillers at the moment. John found himself glad of this, actually. Someone _else_ was feeling uneasy. Good.

"Doctor Watson, I'm not entirely clear on why you think we are 'going after' you," Holmes said with a frown and an expression on his face that looked for all the world like genuine confusion. "In fact, I am fairly certain that I've just offered you a job."

John jerked in surprise, then stared.

"What?" he demanded.

"I did just say that I am in need of an unattached combat doctor who is also an expert marksman," Holmes reminded him. "I am also an accurate shot, as is Gabriel, but out of the three of us here, only you are an experienced army doctor."

John kept staring at him.

"Your sister's debt is not your responsibility, however, given the nature of sibling relationships," at this, Mitchell barely suppressed a sarcastic grunt, which confused John but which Holmes ignored, "I am, in fact, offering you the chance to repay her loan without me or my associates having to resort to other means of obtaining the money from her."

John pushed himself to his feet.

"Other means?" he snapped. "What do you mean, other means?" Before Holmes could answer, he continued. "And I suppose this means I'd work for you for free, yes? Until whatever debt and interest you decided Harry has to pay was worked off! That's brilliant, isn't it? What kind of idiot do you think I am, to take that?"

"Sit down, Doctor Watson," Holmes said coolly, his smile entirely gone now. John refused to obey, standing his ground, reaching automatically for his cane, noting that Holmes' eyes followed the movement. When John didn't sit, Holmes crossed his arms and sighed, arching an eyebrow.

"Your ability to jump to a conclusion regarding my motivations is impressive but entirely unwarranted and unwise. You haven't even heard the terms of my conditions, Doctor. I've told you twice now that I'm in need of a doctor with combat experience. This means that your services are in high demand and _I_ am the one who needs to negotiate. Harriet owes me ten thousand pounds which you've correctly deduced is a small amount for a man such as me, but it's money that is owed nonetheless.

"But work you as a slave for your sister's debts and for your skills? You may take me to be whatever you want, but you would be entirely wrong in doing so. My offer is this: you will be on call for me twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, but your duties as a doctor will _only_ be as an on call basis. You won't have regular hours or any such thing to keep at a clinic, which may seem less preferable to you, I understand, although it should be fairly similar to your situation in Afghanistan, so not wholly unknown to you. You will be provided with any and all medical equipment you need at no expense to yourself. You are, in essence, a private doctor, Doctor Watson, to see to whatever it is I need seen to, for whichever of my staff needs you. Right now, this would be Gabriel, who, I'd like to point out, has already had surgery so requires none of that, and should he require any further x-rays, this can be done at a proper clinic that has this equipment because I appreciate that a surgeon is not a radiologist and you cannot be expected to do everything. What I _need_ is someone trained in emergency medicine and who can write prescriptions and do all of the basic tasks a good army surgeon can do. Up to and including emergency surgery.

"I also require protection for a good friend of ours, Martha Hudson. You mentioned the shooting was linked to a break in to a flat in Central London. The break in was to her flat, by a former associate of her ex-husband who, believe me, makes me seem like some sort of choirboy by comparison. You may be suspicious about Gabriel's injury and simply by the fact that he got shot, but he was shot protecting a woman in her sixties from being hurt and most likely killed because her ex-husband, who is in prison, I should add, sent someone round to hunt her down. What do you make of that, Doctor? You yourself were shot in service of other people. Do you think this is so different? You are welcome to hold whatever opinions you like of me or my business, but I want you to remember this as well: Gabriel was shot protecting a friend from someone dangerous to her. Yes? But neither of us can be there full-time to protect her, and Gabriel is obviously in no position to do so at the moment anyway. I need someone who was trained, and trained properly, in the defence of others.

"In both respects, you fit my requirements. So your employment would be as both a doctor _and_ a soldier, which should appeal to you.

"What you would receive in return from me is this: a salary of one hundred thousand pounds a year initially, excluding whatever expenses you incur for travel or supplies, a flat in Mrs. Hudson's small building, the rent which would be reduced for your services, a new weapon, or more weapons, should you need them, including a firearms certificate, a rather comprehensive health plan that would pay for far superior physio- and psychotherapy than you've been receiving. And a chance to repay your sister's debt and, yes, the interest on it, if you choose to do so. You have the option of having your salary garnished for the debt if you'd like, or simply paying me money from your income. I guarantee you, Doctor Watson, that your sister cannot afford to repay me, nor will you find a better offer to have the debt settled than this."

John stared, trying desperately to catch up.

A few minutes ago, he'd been certain they were here to shoot him or threaten to shoot Harry or Clara or his mother. His anger had dissipated suddenly, leaving only shock in its wake.

And the echo of the words "one hundred thousand pounds a year".

_What?_

With that money he could – well, there were any number of things he could do.

He tried to refocus.

"And what about when Harry gets into trouble with you again?" he asked coolly, crossing his arms, refusing to go for his cane.

"It is a simple matter for me to refuse her any more loans or entry into any of the establishments I own," Holmes said smoothly. "Whatever debt she comes into will be not be to me, but I'd also suggest that if you worked for me, any problems she may encounter that she brings round to you would be much more easily dealt with."

John stared at him again, aware that he kept doing this, but unable to really stop.

This all seemed like some bizarre dream. He was tempted to pinch himself to see if he'd fallen asleep at his computer while trying to think up a blog post, but there were too many details that were too real, and these men were too vivid. And he was certain he couldn't have come up with this much madness on his own.

Mitchell shifted again, and John didn't miss the way his jaw tightened and the way he swallowed hard when he moved slightly. Neither did Holmes, whose grey eyes flashed back to his partner. John hesitated a moment, but he knew that kind of pain. That wasn't just discomfort.

He snagged one of the old glasses from his small cupboard and filled it quickly with water, limping back to Mitchell and handing it off.

"Have your painkillers?" he snapped.

Mitchell pulled out a small bottle and John took it, examining it, frowning but approving, then gave it back. The younger man took the drugs and drained the water, giving the glass back to John.

"Thank you," he said, and it struck John as so unexpected, so out of what he'd expect as character for either of them that he hesitated before replying:

"You're welcome."

He turned back to Holmes, giving him a glare that the tall man seemed to let just slide right over him. John was tempted to use some of his captain voice, but had the sense that it wouldn't work on Holmes. He was not a man who was used to listening to orders. He was a man who was used to issuing them.

"Do I have to decide right now?" he snapped. "Without seeing the flat?"

"Of course not," Holmes said in an irritatingly smooth voice. He pulled a business card out of his wallet and gave it to John, who glared at the card for good measure before shoving it in the back pocket of his jeans. "Please, take some time, Doctor Watson. If you'd like to see the flat, it can be easily arranged. The address is 221B Baker Street, in Central London which would, I think, suit you much better than this."

John wanted to demand how Holmes knew that about him, but Holmes seemed to know more than John wanted him to – which John would have preferred was nothing – but it wasn't so far a stretch to imagine that someone wouldn't want to live here.

"Thank you for your time," Holmes said. "Take no more than thirty-six hours, because if you decide against it, I shall move onto someone else. Martha Hudson would very much like to return home, but I should not like her to without some security in her house. If I don't hear from you by the end of that time, I shall assume your answer is no."

John heard all sorts of threats in there, about Harry and the money she owed, and doubted he was imagining them. He repressed a shudder and felt trapped by his injury and by his sister and her addictions.

Mitchell rose with only some difficulty and John gladly yanked the door open for both men, waiting as they left, Mitchell moving slowly.

"I will speak with you soon, Doctor," Holmes said with infuriating and unwarranted certainty.

John didn't respond, shutting the door with some satisfaction, leaning his head against the cheap wood, closing his eyes but refusing to exhale a sigh until he heard their footsteps moving down the cheerless hallway.

To think, he'd been wondering what to blog about what – he checked his watch. Less than an hour ago.

"I'd recommend not doing so, Doctor Watson!" he heard Holmes' call from outside the door, a little down the hall. "At least not specifics and names! And if a man named Jim Moriarty comes to speak to you, you'd be best denying we were here!"

John backed away from the door so fast that his limp was momentarily forgotten. He stared at the wood incredulously, balling his hands into fists, then forcing himself to relax. The man _must_ be a mind reader. There was no other explanation.

He made himself wait several minutes, counting his breathing, keeping himself calm through years of practice. Then, when he was certain they must be gone, even with Mitchell's slow pace, John opened the door and peered out cautiously.

The corridor was empty, silent as always.

He went back inside and opened the drawer in which he kept his laptop, pulling it out again. He didn't bother putting his gun away, not yet – after that, he needed the bit of security it could provide him, even if it was only in his head. John grabbed his keys and wished he had a case or a bag for his laptop, but he couldn't afford the extra expense, no matter how small, not on his army pension.

_You could if you were making one hundred thousand quid a year!_ his mind chimed in and he bit down on that thought.

There were a _lot_ of things he could buy and do on that salary. It was almost ridiculous.

Scratch that, it _was_ ridiculous.

Shaking his head and taking another deep breath, John took his laptop and left his tiny flat, locking the door behind him, as if this would keep anyone out who really wanted to get in, not that there was anything to steal, and went to visit an old friend.


	11. Chapter 11

John made his way slowly through the gloomy complex, the weather not helping the rundown appearance of the buildings. The clouds were low, threatening rain but not delivering it. At least if it rained, it might wash away some of the dinginess, if only very briefly.

He kept his pace slow because it was hard to walk with his cane and his laptop – he felt unbalanced. And the weather was making his shoulder hurt, so the weight of the laptop in his left arm added to the ache. He sighed, pausing for a moment to sit on a bench, then kept going.

Inside another building, he knocked on a door almost identical to his but for the number and felt the mild annoyance – again – that they weren't in the same building. Something about independence. As though living like this constituted any sort of independence whatsoever.

_Your own flat in London_, he thought without meaning to. _One hundred thousand pounds a year._

"It's John!" he called, in part to cover the sound of his own voice in his head.

The door was pulled open a moment later and John was greeted by a bright grin, one that always seemed out of place here, and reminded him momentarily of the way Mitchell's smile had seemed in his flat, cheery and unexpected. He pushed that thought away as he limped inside, settling into the chair he was waved towards, putting his laptop on the desk and flipping it open.

"'Afternoon, Jamie," John said, returning the smile with one of his own, mustering the best one he could.

Jamie grinned at him again and set about making tea. John rose to help, but the younger man pointed to the chair again, shaking his head emphatically.

"Sit," he mouthed, which John understood well enough. He was pretty good with single words, and typical things like "how are you?" or "what's new?" – which presumed anything _was_ new. Although today there was news, he supposed.

Holmes had said not to blog about it, but not to avoid talking to someone about it.

Conversations with Jamie were curiously one-sided, although John was adjusting to this. He felt partly like he was talking to himself, because, strictly speaking, he was the only one actually talking. Jamie used an instant messenger programme to reply, because he was quicker at typing than writing, and it was cheaper than going through a mass of notepads and pens all of the time. It was almost the same, but not quite, and John had to admit, even just to himself, that he did miss hearing his friend's voice.

He evaluated the healing scars on Jamie's neck and the one on his jaw and across his right cheek. They looked better almost every time John saw him, which was on a daily basis, or close to anyway. They'd never vanish, of course, especially since some of them were surgery scars as well as scars from where the shrapnel had hit him in the throat and face. With a scarf on he'd look mostly fine, because the majority of the scarring was to his neck, and the one on his cheek had the effect of making him look somehow more dashing than he always had, like he was some sort of daring adventurer.

Well, fair enough, John thought. It was a poor trade at best, his voice for a glamorous scar. But Jamie had said – or typed, rather – that losing his voice was better than losing his life, and he seemed to actually believe it, despite being stuck here, confined by these four depressing walls, making cheap tea in two old mugs from the Oxfam shop, because that was what he could afford.

He could have gone back to Edinburgh, but he'd told John there would be little point. He had his mother and sister there, but his sister was divorced with three children of her own, caring for a mother who had Alzheimer's. She didn't need an injured brother who couldn't work making things all the worse for her. Even with his pension, he'd barely contribute to her household and his prospects of getting a mechanic's job without being able to speak were dismal. John wondered how he faced that on a daily basis – at least John could imagine a time when he could go back to work.

_Yeah, like now_, he reminded himself. _For one hundred thousand pounds a year._

Still, Jamie insisted he was lucky – the shrapnel could have severed his carotid artery rather than his recurrent laryngeal nerve, and it was sheer chance and quick work on the part of the medics and the surgeon who had saved him that he hadn't died of asphyxiation from the trauma to his trachea.

Could have come home in a box, he'd told John once.

Jamie deposited a cup of tea in front of John and pulled out his own laptop, opening it and plugging it in to charge the battery. John called up his instant messenger programme – he had an account on which Jamie and Tricia were his only contacts, and she was so rarely on it that he barely counted her as being there. Jamie's icon popped up less than a moment later.

_You look like shit_, he sent.

"Yeah, thanks," John said, sipping his tea. His friend grinned another of his bright grins and John felt a stab of anger at the world. It was nowhere near fair that they were sitting in this drab room with this inferior tea while whoever had shot him and had set off the small explosion with its rain of shrapnel that had hit Jamie could still be out there, alive and free. John had no idea – some of them had been killed or captured, but he didn't know who had pulled the trigger to loose the bullet that had struck him.

He realized suddenly that the news story he'd heard about the shooting in Central London – the shooting that had injured Mitchell – had indicated that the robber had not been found. It startled him to think that Mitchell's shooter was still out there, and he disliked having something in common with the man.

Because, after all, _he_ was getting the best care that money could buy and wasn't suffering for his injury more than the injury itself warranted. He was probably on his way back to a swanky flat and private nurse right now. He wouldn't have to worry about being suddenly out of work – it had been clear that he remained Holmes' business partner despite the injury.

_What's going on?_ Jamie sent.

"Got a job offer," John replied, surprising himself because he hadn't meant to say it so bluntly or offhandedly. Jamie raised his eyebrows in astonishment and John sighed, shaking his head and waving a hand.

"Not going to take it," John replied.

"What?" Jamie mouthed. "Why?"

_Tell me about it_, he insisted.

John sighed again, shifting in his chair, ignoring the dull ache in his shoulder.

"Nothing to tell," he said.

"Bullshit," Jamie mouthed and John's lips twitched – _that_ was one of the words that he was familiar with lip-reading. It was one of Jamie's favourites. Here, in this place, it got used with almost alarming frequency.

Jamie sipped his tea, giving John a questioning look.

"Fairly certain the men offering it to me are crooks," John said.

At this, Jamie raised his eyebrows, and John hesitated, then gave him the whole story. Jamie put his tea down, listening with growing incredulity, then frowning and sighing – he could just make his exhalations give a sound, but it was fainter than it would have been. Jamie stayed silent – silent via the instant messenger – the whole time John was speaking, just listening and staring, his expression registering surprise and questions more than once.

At the end, Jamie sat in silence – of course, he had no real choice, but he said nothing via the instant messenger for a few minutes, either. John waited.

_You're right, you shouldn't take it_, Jamie typed then and John felt a wave of relief followed by a flash of apprehension. Well, Jamie was only echoing what the rational part of John knew. It would be mad to do this, mad to pursue it, even just to see the flat. If he stuck with his therapies, he'd eventually be well enough to take another job. Yes, maybe not as a surgeon again, because of his leg, standing in one place for that long might be difficult if not impossible. But he could do clinic work. It wouldn't pay as much, but then, nothing would really. It would get him by and maybe he could work out some payment scheme with Holmes to avoid having Harry hurt or evicted from her flat or something like that.

Ten thousand pounds loomed over him and John tried to ignore it. Yes, it was a lot of money for him, but he'd find a way. There had to be one. He'd go round the next day and talk to Harry and try and get her to sober up. If she got this promotion at work, she could do more than her share of helping to repay this ridiculous debt. He'd have her in rehab if he had to drag her there bodily himself, cane or no cane.

He could do this, he told himself. No need to go into the service of two career criminals, no matter how obviously successful they were at their enterprise. John had been a soldier. He'd fought against this sort of thing. Holmes had said Harry wouldn't get drugs from him or from any of his people, but there was no reason for him not to lie about that. Helmand Province was one of the worst poppy growing regions in the world for heroin production. He was not going to support that, not even implicitly.

John felt trapped and small suddenly, compared to the two men who had visited them with their obvious wealth and influence. God, what _would_ they do to Harry? His mind ran liberally through options and he knew that for whatever scenario he thought up, there were probably at least two he wasn't even considering. That Holmes seemed far too intelligent and cunning and creative for John's taste.

He ignored the niggling voice that reminded him of the money, and of the fact that he'd be working again. And that a woman was in need of some security against her ex-husband and his people.

That was too bad. They could find some other pushover to do their dirty work. He didn't need a job that desperately. And Harry could sort herself out with his help, yes, but without him resorting to this. Jamie was absolutely right – he shouldn't take this. He'd been mad to even have considered it, even somewhat.

He refocused when Jamie typed something else.

_You should ask for more money._

* * *

><p>Gabriel was asleep almost immediately after he'd settled himself into the back of the car, his right leg stretched out carefully in front of him, his crutches resting between his left leg and the door. Sherlock buckled himself in and glanced at the younger man, whose head was resting against the window now. He looked pale, as he had lately, of course, and part of that was the fatigue. He was still sleeping much more than normal, even for him, which was far more than Sherlock had ever bothered sleeping. There was discomfort in his face, so Sherlock let him sleep, even though this was mildly annoying.<p>

He wanted to talk, and Gabriel was usually the perfect choice, but not as good when he was sleeping. His opinions were both valid and warranted and Sherlock always appreciated them, even when he disagreed with them completely. Talking to a sleeping Gabriel had never satisfied any conversational requirements, and tended to wake Gabriel up in any case, making him cranky and irritable.

Sherlock settled for gazing out the window, a small smile playing on his lips.

So. Doctor John Watson.

Oh, undoubtedly he'd be wrestling right now with all sorts of moral questions and trying to convince himself that no, he would not do this, that Sherlock was clearly both a criminal and a madman, because Watson was that type of person. The money had caught his interest – Sherlock had seen that clearly – but it wouldn't be what would cement the deal. He could convince himself out of the money, actually, even with Harriet's debt on the line. He had illusions about the world that being a soldier had reinforced.

Bringing Gabriel had been a good idea, so Sherlock appropriated it as his own. It was enough to wedge in a sliver of doubt, that this obvious criminal had been shot defending a helpless old woman. The thought of Mrs. Hudson actually being a helpless old woman made Sherlock's lips twitch again and he chuckled quietly to himself.

But she'd be useful, he thought. He pulled out his phone and texted Cheryl, telling her that Mrs. Hudson's presence would be required soon at her flat, because he knew Watson would at least want to see the place. Moreover, he'd want to meet Martha Hudson. He was the sort of man who would connect more with a person than a piece of property or a sum of money.

Sherlock would use Gabriel for _that_, too. He hadn't seen Mrs. Hudson since he'd been shot, nor she him. It would be a good reunion, and witnessing it would be good for Watson. Which was to say, it would be good for getting Watson to think the way Sherlock wished him to.

He was distracted when Gabriel's phone rang and pulled it out of the younger man's coat pocket with waking him. Sherlock checked the number in case it was important, but it was the blasted Detective Inspector Lestrade again. Surely he had enough to worry about with these serial suicides that were clearly murders? The fact that the police hadn't pinned that down was disappointing. He'd seen such promise in Lestrade, too.

And he insisted on continuing to harass Gabriel, as though Gabriel would magically know where the man he'd shot was. Sherlock was still looking for him. He knew Jim was, too.

Wherever he was, the dual search did not bode well for him.

For something to do, he changed the ring tone on Gabriel's phone to some irritatingly peppy pop song and dropped it back in his pocket, grinning. Then Sherlock turned to watch London proper envelop them again and drew a breath of relief.

This, too, would sway Watson.

It was so easy, sometimes. But Watson had impressed him, oh yes, no denying that. He gave another smile when he recalled Gabriel's words. It _had_ been eight years since someone had dared ask if he was joking about his name. And the man had more than held his own against the two of them. Stunning, really, given the injury he had that was bothering him. Oh, not the leg, that was clearly psychosomatic, and he'd have to dispense with that nonsense soon, but the shoulder.

No, he had dealt with them well, and Sherlock was pleased and only a little surprised. He was, after all, a genius and had been entirely expecting to be right about Watson.

He was glad the doctor had not let him down.


	12. Chapter 12

"How much do you estimate I would have to pay that nurse of yours to do this?" Sherlock sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the sight of Gabriel's wound as he changed the bandage.

"She's not _my_ nurse," Gabriel pointed out, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "And anyway, I can do it just fine, I don't see why you won't let me."

"You got yourself shot," Sherlock replied. "You're hardly to be trusted with your own well-being."

Gabriel snorted and Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him.

"It's a bloody bandage, Sherlock."

"No, it is not a bloody bandage, the reason being, the surgeon did a proper job stitching you up. It is, in fact, a clean bandage."

He felt like a nursemaid but there was no one else he trusted to do this, not even Gabriel himself. How much easier it would be if John Watson would ring and simply accept his offer. In the meantime, he made a mental note to text that nurse, Sandra Casey, from Gabriel's phone and ask her to come over. It would save him some trouble. Thankfully Mike Stamford would be back in the city within a few days so, if nothing else, he'd have a doctor he could rely on at least some of the time. And he needed the man's opinion on Gabriel's injury, to ensure it was healing properly. He did not at all trust the doctors at St. Mary's. They worked for the government, even by proxy, and were therefore under suspicion. Probably all in Mycroft's employ, he thought darkly.

"Anyway, I didn't get myself shot," Gabriel continued. "I was shot. And, I might add, I shot him back _after_ I'd been hit and managed to get him in the shoulder."

"And he still got away," Sherlock muttered, securing the bandage and strapping Gabriel's removable cast back on.

"Oh yes, sorry about that," Gabriel said. "I did do my best. With a gunshot wound to my knee."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You could have tried to have it hit above the knee," he said. "It's going to leave a visible scar. You have good calves, you know, and this will only entirely ruin the effect when you wear a kilt."

Gabriel stared at him.

"Sorry, under what circumstances are you imagining I'll ever need to wear a kilt?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Sherlock said. "But you should consider these things. One never knows."

Gabriel tugged his black trouser leg back down over the cast and shook his head.

"In the future, I'll be more careful about where I get shot," he replied.

"Good," Sherlock said, standing, ignoring the eye roll he received from the younger man in return. "I should like Doctor Watson to have a look at that when we see him next."

"Mike _and_ Doctor Watson? Shouldn't I get some say in this?"

"No, I'm much more intelligent than you are and older and more responsible."

At this, Gabriel snorted, shifting his position on his couch to snag a pillow and put it under his foot to keep his injured leg elevated.

"Responsible, yes, absolutely," Gabriel agreed. "And if you don't stop changing my phone's ringer, I'll tell Mycroft you're hosting a birthday party for him at your flat next month."

Sherlock froze in the act of gathering up the old bandages to bin them.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"I'd fire you."

"Go ahead. Mycroft would give me a job. Bet he'd pay well for information about you, too."

Sherlock cast Gabriel a dark glare.

"And anyhow, you're always threatening to fire me, it's really lost any sting it might ever have had."

"You're the most insufferable person I know. After Mycroft."

"Yes, well, _I _know _you_, so you're getting off easy, really."

Sherlock huffed and Gabriel laughed. The older man went into the kitchen, binning the waste and putting away the rest of the medical supplies before hunting through Gabriel's cupboards for some scotch.

"Help yourself!" the younger man called.

"I am," Sherlock replied. For good measure, and because he knew it would irritate Gabriel, he made tea for the younger man, alcohol being contra-indicated with his antibiotics and his painkillers.

He went back into the livingroom with the mug of tea and a glass of scotch for himself and did not fail to notice the scowl on Gabriel's face. Sherlock settled down in a chair, propping his feet on the coffee table.

"Any plans of calling your sister or mother?" he enquired.

"I figured I'd just let Jim send pictures again."

"Not funny, Gabriel," Sherlock snapped.

"Yes, well, I wasn't joking, either. He's going to make trouble over this. He always does. Besides, what's my mother going to do? She'll probably accuse me of accusing Richard."

"Are you certain it wasn't him?"

"I remember the man's face, Sherlock. It wasn't him. Also –" he cut himself off, taking a sip of his tea. Sherlock frowned.

"Also what?"

Gabriel shot him a glare over the top of his mug and shook his head, but replied, reluctantly:

"Also, I'd probably not have reacted as quickly if it had been." He refused to meet Sherlock's eyes when he said this, as though admitting to some rather large character flaw.

Sherlock sipped his scotch.

"At very least, call Marian," he said. "She will be worrying that she hasn't heard from you in a week."

"In the morning," Gabriel sighed.

"If you don't, I will."

"I know you will," Gabriel said with a scowl. "Honestly, you're worse than Mycroft."

"No one's worse than Mycroft," Sherlock said mildly.

Gabriel only rolled his eyes and Sherlock fished his phone from his pocket, setting it on the arm of the chair.

"Think he'll call?" Gabriel asked, glancing at the phone.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked by way of reply.

"I think he'll negotiate. Not because he has to. To make himself feel better about accepting."

"I agree."

"He thinks we're crooks."

"We are _not _crooks," Sherlock said, using the last word with disdain, since it was base and common. To his mind, a crook was a petty thief only, someone operating on the level of the street, of little interest to the police except that stopping a crook would bolster their arrest statistics. Perhaps someone who stole trinkets from department stores or sweets from convenience stores.

Not sums into the millions, priceless works of art, artifacts, museum pieces, identities, et cetera.

They were businessmen. There was a definite and important distinction.

Arresting Sherlock or Gabriel would have been quite a feather in the cap for the police, which is why he supposed that Lestrade was still sniffing around, hoping for some lead. He seemed to have identified something suspicious about Gabriel and obviously wanted it to come to light, to land him in trouble. How tiresome and tedious that Gabriel really was the victim in this case. For a moment, Sherlock was grateful that Gabriel had never pressed charges against Richard, despite what Sherlock had thought at the time. If the police were like this now, in an unrelated shooting incident, he could only imagine how troublesome they'd be dealing with an assault by one brother on another.

"He's smart though," Gabriel continued. "Quick." He paused, then flashed a grin. "And he liked you."

"He did not like me. He actively disliked me. That was exceptionally obvious."

"All right, he likes the idea of you. The possibility of something new, I mean."

"He should. That place was utterly depressing."

"You said it yourself, it's what taxpayer-funded living affords."

"Nonetheless," Sherlock sniffed. "It's inappropriate. He made some very adept assessments about your injury."

"And he made fun of your name."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Gabriel grinned.

"Oh, I see now why you think so highly of him. I do not need more of your cheek, young man."

"Well, it would be _his_ cheek and he's older than you," Gabriel pointed out. "Anyway, he'll say yes. You'll just have to bargain with him first."

"Mm," Sherlock said noncommittally. He'd come to the same conclusion regarding John Watson, but he strongly suspected money would not be the motivator. It was the only bargaining chip he would have, however, since the flat was not in question – Sherlock needed someone there for Mrs. Hudson. Well, perhaps he could bargain for the hours, to not be on call all of the time, but this was not a point on which Sherlock would relent. He needed someone to be available, since Mike was not always so. Money was not an issue.

"How long do you think it will take?" Gabriel asked.

Sherlock checked the time on his phone.

"No more than an hour," he said. "He won't wait until tomorrow. He'll be too concerned about his sister."

"With good reason."

"No, the difficulty now will be keeping her from repeating this and falling into debt with Jim," Sherlock sighed. "Do you think Mycroft would permit the forced confinement of an adult woman to a rehabilitation facility?"

"Probably not," Gabriel said. "Not if you're asking. He'll find it suspicious."

"Blast that man!" Sherlock snapped. "I'll sort something out, I'm sure."

"You always do."

"I am a genius," Sherlock reminded him and Gabriel rolled his eyes. As the younger man drained the last of his tea, Sherlock's phone rang. Gabriel cast a curious glance at him and Sherlock nodded, feeling triumphant. Far less than an hour. He'd overestimated somewhat.

Doctor Watson had surprised him again, if only mildly.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," he greeted, sipping his scotch, keeping his voice calm and casual.

"Mister Holmes," Watson replied – it wasn't quite a greeting, and there was a certain bite to his voice. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. That man had more than a little courage and spark.

"I hope you've made a favourable decision, Doctor," Sherlock said, letting some warning slip into his voice. Despite the fact that Harriet's debt was a small sum to him, it was a large sum to Watson, and Sherlock was not going to let it go uncollected. In all, he'd prefer to collect it this way, with the minimum of fuss and a beneficial arrangement all around. He had no illusions about securing repayment from an alcoholic with a gambling problem. The addiction would overwhelm the threat, but John Watson had a coolness and clear-headedness that his sister lacked. He would want to avoid violence, too. As a soldier and a doctor, he'd be trained for that. And was the type of man who would do so regardless.

"No decision yet," Watson said gruffly. "I want to see the flat and meet this Mrs. Hudson."

"One moment," Sherlock replied and put the phone down, covering the receiver gently with his hand. Gabriel gave him a questioning look, but Sherlock shook his head, sipping his scotch again until he'd finished it, then picked up the phone once more.

"Yes, I believe that can be arranged for tomorrow morning," he said and Gabriel rolled his eyes at the feigned delay. But it had worked – Sherlock could hear that Watson's impatience had changed in tone, even though he said nothing immediately. Sherlock had forced him to await a reply. "Nine-thirty in the morning. The address is 221B Baker Street. Don't be late. Good night, Doctor."

Without letting Watson reply, he rung off and tucked his phone back in his pocket.

"Good," Gabriel said. "Now let me get some sleep."

"You slept in the car then an hour here already," Sherlock pointed out.

"And I need more. The doctors said I should rest."

"And Sandra," Sherlock commented with a snicker, to which Gabriel only rolled his eyes again. It was an expression he favoured with Sherlock.

"Get out of my flat, before you drain me dry of scotch."

"You can always buy more," Sherlock pointed out. "I pay you more than enough."

"Good point. If you hire Watson at that salary, I want a raise."

Sherlock gave him a pointed look.

"You already make significantly more money than that," he commented. "_And_ you pay no rent, whereas Watson will be paying some, if only to deter him from feeling like he's receiving charity from such an obvious criminal as myself. You, on the other hand, do not seem to mind."

"I like being a kept man," Gabriel agreed, to which Sherlock responded by pitching a throw pillow at him.

"If you were that, then you'd have to work on your attitude. Insufferable, as I said. You're lucky you do good work, otherwise I may have no reason to keep you around."

"I still need a raise," Gabriel commented with a grin. "I have a young woman I'd like to take for a very fancy dinner very soon."

"Since I know you spend your money on next to nothing, I also know you are not in dire financial need and can easily afford any restaurant in the city you choose, or all of them, if you'd rather do that. Besides, Sandra is an NHS nurse, and a rather junior one at that, given her age. Her income is therefore limited and she will be impressed regardless of where you take her."

"Should have known you'd already checked into her," Gabriel sighed.

"She was one of the first, after the doctors," Sherlock said amiably. "She'd taken a shine to you."

"And that made you suspicious, did it?"

"I did need to make sure it wasn't on Jim's orders," Sherlock replied. "No need to accuse me of seeing conspiracies everywhere, because I will only point out that you've done precisely the same for me and for precisely the same reasons."

Gabriel only shrugged. Truth be known, Sherlock had no complaints about this, because Gabriel was more discreet than Mycroft and did not hold it over Sherlock's head. Sherlock somewhat believed Mycroft did it out of concern for his well being, too, but it still chafed of overbearing older brotherness.

"I really do need to sleep," Gabriel said. "Especially if you want me in any kind of working condition in the morning."

"I do," Sherlock said, so rose and took his glass and Gabriel's mug into the kitchen. He stuck them in the dishwasher and went back into the living room to bid Gabriel good night, the younger man in the process of adjusting his crutches and his weight so that he could stand.

"See you in the morning," Gabriel said.

Sherlock thought of Doctor Watson and his probable reactions to the flat and Mrs. Hudson and grinned.

"I look forward to it," he replied, and let himself out.


	13. Chapter 13

John arrived ten minutes early, having come by cab, which took nearly an hour and cost him more than he wanted to admit. Nor did he like to think that he still had to make the trip back.

For the end of January, at least it wasn't too cold, and he waited outside, hands bundled in his pockets, until a black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up and he was not in the least surprised to see the driver get out and open the door first for Sherlock Holmes, who emerged from the driver's side, avoiding the oncoming traffic with practiced ease, then from Gabriel Mitchell, who got out onto the sidewalk, crutches and all.

"Doctor Watson, good morning!" Holmes called, far too cheerily for John's taste, giving him a welcoming smile and shaking his hand warmly. John shook in return, nodding a greeting.

"Mrs. Hudson will be joining us shortly," Holmes said, unlocking the door. "I'll show you the flat first. Please, come in."

He stepped in, holding the door for John, who limped inside, and for Mitchell, who followed more slowly. John found himself in an entryway with a set of stairs leading up to the first floor and a short corridor leading back past the stairs, beyond which he could see another door and a washer and dryer.

"Your flat is on the first floor," he said, gesturing up the stairs. "That's Mrs. Hudson's on the ground here. Wait here a moment, will you?"

With that, he withdrew a gun, handling it expertly, John noticed, gesturing for Mitchell to wait as well, and unlocked Mrs. Hudson's door, waiting a cautious moment, then disappearing inside for a few brief minutes.

"Right," he said, coming back out. "Gabriel, please, feel free."

Mitchell made his way into the ground floor flat, presumably to sit down, and John did not blame him for not wanting to navigate the stairs on those crutches. He wasn't overly fond of the idea with the cane, but at least he could use both of his legs and balancing would not be an issue.

"Come with me, if you don't mind, Doctor Watson," Holmes said, and John noticed he was being more solicitous that day compared to the previous day.

_Well, he got what he wanted_, John thought with a sigh. _I'm here, aren't I?_

He followed up the stairs, moving more slowly than Holmes, who looked as though he could probably take them three at a time with those long legs of his. Holmes unlocked the door and pushed it open, sweeping inside as though he belonged there, perfectly at ease, acting like this was his building, not Mrs. Hudson's house.

"It could use a bit of dusting," Holmes commented when John stepped in. "A good scrubbing, perhaps, but it's a decent size for one person."

John stopped when he got inside and stared.

Decent size for one person?

Compared to his tiny flat, he could get lost in here. Holmes stood in the empty living room, wrapped in a black wool overcoat, a grey scarf and leather gloves and grinned expectantly at him. John ignored him in favour of the view of the flat. The living room itself was probably the size of his current flat, and it led off in one direction into the kitchen, separated by an archway, and to the dining room, which faced the street, large windows letting in the pale January light.

There was nothing in the flat save the two of them and some dust, and Holmes was right, it did need a good scrubbing. But John had helped his father clean and paint and do some work on the basement in the house in which he'd grown up, and he was no stranger to eyeing up a space for potential. The place had hardwood floors – real ones, not the laminated kind that were so popular nowadays – a fireplace that also looked real, and large windows in kitchen as well as in the dining room.

He glanced behind Holmes to see a short corridor leading away from the living room as well as another staircase.

"Bedroom and bathroom back there," Holmes said, pointing to the hallway. "A second bedroom upstairs, should you prefer it up there, or wish to use it for an office or whathaveyou. New smoke detectors in here and in both bedrooms, as well as a carbon monoxide detector in the corridor. There's a recently inspected fire extinguisher in the kitchen, and one on the ground floor by the washer. The fire escape is round back, and connects to the windows of each bedroom."

John nodded, at a loss for what else to do.

It was _brilliant_.

He glanced at the grinning man standing opposite him, looking entirely disarming, that same smile on his face that John had noted yesterday when he was really pleased with something, that made him look not at all dangerous, more like a delighted child.

_Probably not a good idea to forget what he does_, John thought, although, truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure what Holmes did, exactly. Other than something that obviously involved gambling and lending money to people who should not be given money for addictive pursuits.

"Have a look around," Holmes invited, and John did, going into the kitchen first. The appliances, he noted, were almost brand new, if not completely brand new. He opened the fridge curiously, but there was nothing inside, and he wasn't sure why he had half expected there to be. He poked through the cupboards, evaluating the space, but really, anything more than one was almost excessive for him.

There seemed to be no indications that someone had lived here previously, no small forgotten items or half finished bottles of cleaner or nearly empty paper towel rolls, all of the things John would associate with a formerly occupied flat.

"Who lived here last?" he asked.

Holmes spread his gloved hands.

"No idea," he admitted. "As I understand, it's been quite some time since she had someone up here."

John wondered if it were true that Holmes didn't know; he didn't seem like the kind of man who would maintain his ignorance about this sort of thing. But maybe it didn't matter.

He made his way into the back bedroom and paused, shaking his head. He'd need to buy a bed, he realized, if he moved in here.

He'd need to buy everything.

All he had could easily fit into two suitcases, and those would look very small and empty indeed in all of this space. John checked the closet, which was more than big enough for all of his clothing, then went into the bathroom.

A real bath. A real, honest bath. He stared at it for a moment before realizing he was doing so. Then, out of curiosity, he tested the water, running it first in the tub, then flipping the switch for the shower. The water pressure was perfect when he tested it against his palm, and he was amazed at the thought of not having to contend with the weak pressure in his tiny shower in his tiny flat.

John shut the water off and returned to the living room, then climbed the stairs to the second bedroom slowly, looking around quickly. It was roughly the same size as the one downstairs, but he couldn't see using it that much, given the irritation of going up and down the stairs on a cane.

"How much?" he asked Holmes when he descended the stairs again.

"With the services to Mrs. Hudson, fifteen hundred a month."

John stared.

"You're kidding, right?" he asked. "For all this space? In this area?"

"Not at all," Holmes replied smoothly with another smile. "I did mention yesterday that the cost would be reduced given that you are living here as what is essentially security."

"Yes, but –" John said, gesturing helplessly around him.

"Of course, you'd be responsible for your own gas bill and whatnot," Holmes said, looking unfazed. "And furnishing."

John just nodded.

"It's quite a nice place, in its own way," Holmes commented, glancing about. "It's got character, I believe."

"I'll say," John muttered. Holmes looked distracted a moment, then pulled out his phone, smiling again at the tiny screen.

"Brilliant," he said. "Mrs. Hudson is almost here. Come back downstairs, Doctor. I think you'll quite like her."

* * *

><p>"Can I ask you something?" John enquired as they made their way down the stairs again.<p>

"Of course."

"That armoured car robbery last week, was that you?"

Holmes paused, one gloved hand resting on the banister, and glanced back.

"No, it was not," he answered easily.

"Was it Gabriel?"

"Now, why would you think that?"

"He was trying not to laugh when I mentioned it yesterday."

"Hmm," Holmes said noncommittally, then cocked an eyebrow, giving John another one of his brilliant smiles, his grey eyes dancing. "No, it certainly wasn't Gabriel."

And he was lying.

John _knew_ he was lying. Holmes knew John knew he was lying and was probably making it clear he was lying, but what could John ever prove? He'd said no. He hadn't admitted to anything.

"Come," he said, tilting his head slightly, and kept walking, leading John into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"There's tea!" Gabriel called from the living room and Sherlock grinned again, helping himself to a cuppa from the pot, offering one to John, who hesitated. They were in someone else's flat, someone he didn't know.

"She invited us to," Sherlock told him and John agreed, hearing the front door opening as Sherlock fixed him a cup without bothering to ask how he took it, but getting it right nonetheless. Had he found that out about John, too?

"Hello, Sherlock?" an older female voice called.

"In here!" Sherlock replied, smiling again, this time more warmly. He put his tea on the counter and went toward the door, John following him at a slower pace because of the limp, coming round the corner in time to see a tall, rather distinguished woman in her sixties beaming and wrapping her arms around Holmes' shoulders.

"Sherlock," she said in greeting.

"Mrs. Hudson, good to see you. Have we been taking good care of you?"

"That young woman is lovely, Sherlock, absolutely lovely. Thank you." She kissed him soundly on the cheek, then, to John's surprise, took his face between her hands, smiling at him, evaluating him quickly. She then pulled him down and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"Look at you, dear, beautiful as always. Is Gabriel here?"

"He is," Sherlock replied, half turning, gesturing to the living room, where the younger man had pushed himself up, keeping his right leg bent, off the floor, hold himself steady with his fingertips resting on the arm of the chair in which he'd been sitting.

"Gabe!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, pulling away from Sherlock and hurrying into the living room, enveloping the younger man into a hug, which he returned fiercely, the expression of utter relief on his face shocking John, unbalancing him so that he leaned a bit more heavily on his cane in response. Mitchell closed his eyes, exhaling a sigh, holding on as though reassuring himself that the woman was all right and really there.

Mrs. Hudson then kissed him on both cheeks before bundling him back into a tight hug.

"Oh, my boy," she said, and John had a moment's disorientation – Mitchell surely wasn't her son? "Are you all right? I was so worried."

"I'm all right," he assured her, nodding, pulling out of the hug.

"Let me have a look. Sit, dear, sit, sit. You shouldn't be standing, not on that."

Mitchell sat back down, putting his leg back up, and Mrs. Hudson fussed over him.

"He's got good doctors, hasn't he, Sherlock?" she demanded, looking back toward the taller man. Sherlock grinned, pointing at John.

"Right there," he said. "Doctor John Watson, meet Martha Hudson. Mrs. Hudson, this is the man Cheryl told you about. Doctor Watson has recently returned to London from Afghanistan."

Mrs. Hudson rose gracefully and extended her hand. John switched his cane hands quickly and shook back, smiling at her, taken by how friendly she looked, how genuinely concerned she seemed about Mitchell and how pleased she seemed to be meeting him.

"Doctor Watson, such a pleasure. Sherlock tells me that you may be taking the flat upstairs. I cannot tell you how reassuring this is. I've not been home since Gabe was shot, but I do miss this place. What do you think of it?"

"I think it's brilliant," John said honestly.

"Of course, it needs a good cleaning, and I'm sure I can have someone come in before you move in, if you'd like."

John noted that he hadn't said he was agreeing to move in, but wondered if he really had much of a choice at this point. Not a choice between Harry's debt and the job, but a choice between living here or going back to the halfway house.

Not much of a choice, then.

"I'm not afraid of a bit of scrubbing," John said and Mrs. Hudson beamed at him.

"Oh, I like a man who can roll up his sleeves and do some cleaning. You could learn a thing or two from him, Sherlock," she admonished, to which Holmes rolled his eyes but actually looked somewhat chastised.

"That's what I have a housekeeper for," he said.

"A little hard work never hurt anyone, dear."

"I do a lot of hard work," Sherlock assured her with a grin.

"Come, sit down, Doctor Watson. It can't be comfortable standing with your leg. I've got a bad hip myself, I know what it's like."

At this, Holmes raised his eyebrows at John and John repressed a snappish comment about his leg, because she was trying to be hospitable and there was a man with a seriously injured leg in the room. He didn't want to be petulant about it.

Holmes brought him his tea, much to John's surprise, and then fixed one for Mrs. Hudson, delivering it to her as well.

"Do you have family here in the city, Doctor?" she asked, sipping her tea. John noted Mitchell shift, somewhat uncomfortable, but this time, the younger man had something to drink and took two painkillers with what John knew was practiced habit. He remembered what it was like after his own surgery, the way the analgesics would wear off just short when he could take the next round of drugs.

"I have a sister here, yes," he said, carefully avoiding Holmes' face when he said this. "And my mum and her sister live up in Buckhurst Hill."

"Oh, that's lovely. It's so good to have family to come home to."

_It would be, if Harry hadn't been in debt,_ John thought, but was slightly derailed from this by the curiously blank look on Mitchell's face. It seemed entirely deliberate. But Holmes was nodding amiably, as if in full agreement with Mrs. Hudson's statement.

"It was good to see them again when I got back," John agreed. That, at least, was true.

"No wife or children, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"No, it would just be me," John admitted, feeling oddly self-conscious saying this. "And I'm pretty quiet, not much into the wild parties."

"Oh well, we all grow out of that stage sooner or later," Mrs. Hudson agreed and John had a sudden flash of her as a young woman, far less sedate and decorous than she seemed now.

"Left it behind with the army," he managed to say, because it was true. He remembered some of the parties they'd had, especially when they'd gotten together with the Americans – any excuse for a celebration. Independence Day in July, St. Andrew's Day in November, St. Patrick's Day, New Year's Eve – those had been the worst. Or best, he supposed.

Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"My brother was in the army when he was a young man," she said. "Some of the stories he'd tell. I'm sure you'd know."

John smiled back.

"He probably wasn't exaggerating," he commented.

She laughed.

"Oh, I doubt he was," she agreed. "He was a bit wild at the time. I don't think the army tamed him at all. Life is one big adventure for him. Married an Australian woman and went south. You should see the pictures he sends."

"Ha," Mitchell said. "Those kangaroos can't possibly be real. They're far too big."

"What do you know about kangaroos?" Holmes enquired.

"Been to the zoo, haven't I?" Mitchell asked with a grin.

Holmes rolled his eyes.

"That hardly makes you an expert."

"Bet you don't even know where the zoo is," Mitchell snickered and John couldn't help but stare at them a moment. These were two successful criminals? They were bickering like a pair of kids. Or an old married couple.

Mrs. Hudson waved a dismissive hand at both of them, evidently used to dealing with them on a regular basis.

"Do you have any questions about the flat, Doctor?" she asked.

John bit his lower lip, noting Holmes watching him again, and tried to think.

"I don't think so," he said. "I understand I'd be protecting you, though? That you had a break in last week?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed and exchanged a look with Holmes.

"Yes," Holmes said. "Her ex-husband is currently on death row in Florida."

John thought it was a good thing that he hadn't been drinking any tea at that precise moment, or he'd have spit it all over his hosts.

"As such, you can imagine he's not a particularly pleasant man. Gabriel and I have done what we can over the years to ensure Mrs. Hudson's safety and to prevent her from being associated in any way with her husband's continued death sentence, however, he had either found out or has some other reason to come after her. As you can imagine, this is not at all an ideal situation. Gabriel and I are working on finding the man Gabriel shot, and his associates, but I'd rather have someone here who can actually provide some security."

"An armed guard, sort of thing," John said.

"Yes, exactly. If it's any consolation to you, Doctor, I don't think that the man who broke in here intended to hurt Mrs. Hudson, at least not fatally. Gabriel's presence was a surprise, which was why _he_ was shot."

John took a sip of tea to consider this.

"Well, I've already been shot once," he commented.

"And it is not at all my intention that you should be so again," Holmes said. "In fact, I do not intend that anyone should ever come near this building again for the purpose of harming Mrs. Hudson or even simply gaining unwanted entry. However, it would allow me to sleep much better at night knowing there was someone here who was capable of dealing with any problems."

John nodded. Well, he could certainly do that. Which was, of course, part of the reason Holmes had found him.

"Do you have any problems with this, Doctor Watson?"

_Oh, loads_, he thought. _But they're with you, not with her._ Instead of saying this, he shook his head. If Holmes could keep the flat safe through his own means, all the better.

"Good," Holmes said. "Do you need more time to consider your decision, Doctor?"

John hesitated. He didn't, really, because he knew that Harry needed her debt paid off and Jamie had encouraged him to do it, despite the fact that this was madness. It was a job, Jamie said. And they weren't asking him to do anything illegal. Just to be a doctor and provide some security for an older woman living alone.

Having met Mrs. Hudson, he felt hard pressed to want to turn her down, too.

"Take the rest of the morning, Doctor," Holmes said. "I will have a car sent round to fetch you at one this afternoon and bring you to my office. We can discuss specifics there. No need to look so alarmed – it's a normal office. As I said yesterday, we have no intentions of hurting you."

John cast a glance to see how this statement sat with Mrs. Hudson, but she didn't seem at all surprised. Well, if her ex-husband was on death row and she was friends with Holmes and Mitchell, she probably had some idea what they got up to in terms of business.

"Right," he agreed, because he saw no other option. "Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson. It was lovely to meet you."

"And you, dear," she said, rising and giving him a warm kiss on the cheek, which surprised John. "I do hope you take Sherlock up on his offer. It would do me a world of good to have a reliable tenant upstairs."

He shook her hand good-bye and made his escape as graciously as possible, emerging back into the chill January air, feeling a bit more clearheaded once he was outside. John hailed another cab and settled into the back, feeling an unfamiliar future unwinding ahead of him.


	14. Chapter 14

"Thanks," Gabriel said after Watson had left. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him as Mrs. Hudson locked the front door and her footsteps approached them down the short corridor.

"I'd rather not have him negotiating while dazed," Sherlock replied. "Nor while you're trying not to fall asleep."

Gabriel only grunted as he stood on his crutches and transferred himself to the couch. Mrs. Hudson came back in and he looked over at her.

"Do you mind if I appropriate your couch?" he asked.

"No, dear, of course not," she replied and Sherlock smiled slightly, shaking his head. Mrs. Hudson had displayed mother hen tendencies towards both of them almost as long as she'd known them and was unlikely to stop, particularly now that Gabriel was injured and had been so defending her. In fact, she tucked an afghan around him and Gabriel chuckled, closing his eyes. Sherlock disliked that he was still so worn out from the surgery and the injury, but he had consulted various medical websites about this and had come to the well-researched conclusion that this was normal. Tedious, but normal.

"More tea, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock quietly.

"Mm, yes please. And do you happen to have any of those biscuits with chocolate on?"

"HobNobs, Sherlock?"

"Yes, those," he replied lightly.

"I do," she said. "Won't be a minute."

Sherlock went into the kitchen with her anyway, since it was that or sit and watch Gabriel sleep, which was not particularly fascinating and he'd seen his share of that while the younger man had been in the hospital. He deposited Watson's mug and Gabriel's in the sink, and rinsed out his own.

"That Doctor Watson seems lovely," Mrs. Hudson commented as he handed her the milk from the fridge and she fetched down a package of biscuits for them.

"Yes, he does," Sherlock mused, then shook his head at himself – "lovely" was perhaps not the word _he_ should be using, but Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to notice. "Quite capable, I think."

After all, he'd figured out from Gabriel's momentary laughter that the younger man had been responsible for the armoured car robbery. Oh, Gabriel hadn't been there – no need to get caught up if things went wrong, but Gabriel _had_ planned it, so of course things had not gone wrong. Sherlock trusted him, since he had, of course, taught Gabriel everything he knew.

He could tell Watson was still uncertain, but the flat had swayed him and Mrs. Hudson more so. Sherlock quite liked the upstairs flat. It was charming, in a very Bohemian sort of way, and could probably be made quite liveable and comfortable if decorated properly. He liked his own flat more, though, and had lived there for a decade now and had no intentions of moving. It had the added benefit of being the building in which his most trusted employees lived, and Simone and Poe had a six-month-old daughter who was quite a delightful person, even at only half a year old, and fascinated Sherlock by her ability to be utterly changed each time he saw her.

"Oh, I do miss this place," Mrs. Hudson sighed as she passed Sherlock a saucer with a cup on it and three biscuits. He took one of the biscuits immediately and ate it while waiting for his tea to steep. They went back into the living room where Gabriel was fast sleep and regained their seats.

"If all goes well, I believe we will have you back in here by tomorrow," Sherlock assured her.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him.

"You do spoil me, Sherlock," she said.

"Not at all," he contradicted. "I only do what is within my means."

"Henry never bothered with any of this sort of thing," she sighed, glancing around her flat, as though drinking in the details to remember until she was able to return permanently.

"I am not Henry," he said easily.

"No, dear, I know," she replied. "It does my heart good to know there are people like you in the world."

At this, he just arched an eyebrow. She would be happy to return home, as would Cheryl, who had been staying at the safe house with Mrs. Hudson for added protection.

They chatted for awhile while Gabriel slept, completely oblivious to their conversation, then Sherlock woke the younger man, who returned to consciousness with obvious reluctance. Sherlock saw Mrs. Hudson off and then locked the flat behind himself and Gabriel, giving them enough time to return to Sherlock's office and for Gabriel to wake up fully before Doctor Watson joined them again.

* * *

><p>As promised, a car picked John up at one and dropped him off at an office building in the downtown, the driver giving him instructions as to where to go. He made his way up to Holmes' office and was greeted inside by a young woman with short auburn hair, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and bright brown eyes, who appeared far too cheery, in John's opinion, to be a secretary for some sort of crime boss. She was dressed professionally, though, in a white blouse and sensible grey skirt and black heels, as though this really were just another administrative job.<p>

Maybe it was. After all, Holmes must have meetings with other criminals and a schedule to keep and whatnot. It seemed strange, to John.

The office was large and spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows running along one wall, overlooking the city spreading out beyond them. In the distance, John could just make out the circumference of the London eye along the river. The room was furnished with what looked like extremely expensive leather chairs and a sofa and oak tables and cabinets. Most of it was quite neat, but John had the impression, from the disaster area that was the desk's surface, that this was only through effort. Holmes' desk was littered with pens and paper and various other things – an empty container for the pens that looked like it never got any use, a small brass clock, a teacup and saucer that were probably worth more than John's monthly pension, a tiny replica of the Eiffel Tower, for some reason.

No photos at all, John noted.

Every other office he'd ever been in had at least one personal photo. He was willing to bet even Mitchell's did, wherever Mitchell's office was.

Aside from the tourist trinket, the only other personal touch seemed to be the framed diploma from Cambridge in business.

_He went to university?_ John thought. Strange to imagine that. Had he been running his criminal enterprises while he'd been in school? Given the fact that he looked younger than John, probably.

"Tea, Doctor?" Holmes asked after greeting him, waving him into one of the plush leather chairs that surrounded a small coffee table. There were three of these, and one couch, which was occupied by Mitchell, his leg up and resting on a pillow. John was glad to see, at least, that the young man was taking care of his injury.

"Um, yes please," John replied and Holmes despatched his secretary to make them tea, settling himself into a chair.

"Well, Doctor, you've had some time to consider both my offer and the flat itself. I trust, however, that you have some questions."

"Yes," John said, nodding, as the secretary, Tina, came back in with their teas and fixed them before handing a cup and saucer to each man, retrieving the one from Holmes' desk and leaving them again, the door clicking shut quietly behind her.

"Please," Holmes said, gesturing for him to continue.

"Well," John said, "First, most importantly, _if_ I do accept your offer, Mister Holmes, what happens if I eventually decide I want to quit?"

At this, Holmes and Mitchell exchanged a glance, then Holmes gave John a smile.

"Doctor Watson, I have been very fortunate that almost everyone I have employed who has worked with me on a direct basis has chosen to stay. I have lost very few people, and none of them to dissatisfaction with their positions. However, you will not find me an unreasonable man in this matter. People move on. It is simply life. As far as I'm concerned, once you have settled Harriet's debt or decided that you no longer wish to do so, you are under no obligation to me. I require six weeks of notice in order to find a replacement. If you do quit and wish to remain at the Baker Street flat, you will have to work out a rental agreement with Mrs. Hudson."

"And that's it?" John asked. "No problems?"

"You'd be given a generous severance package should you choose to leave, and you would be required to sign a confidentiality agreement for your services to me. Of course, most of these, being medical, are protected by law regardless, but I expect this of all my employees who leave."

"And what about Harry's debt? How much and how long?"

"Mm, ten thousand pounds at fifteen percent interest, if you do one thousand a month, eleven months, although if you consider that too steep, you can do five hundred a month for one year and eleven months."

John paused in shock, noting that Mitchell didn't look at all surprised by Holmes' apparent ability to do this sum in his head. Had he done so beforehand? Somehow, John got the feeling not.

He felt suddenly very displeased with Harry and reminded himself he needed to call her and let her know what was going on. Maybe he'd just blog about how he was repaying her damn debt and embarrass her online. But no, Holmes had warned him not to make the details public. He felt more than a little resentful that she was eating up a portion of his monthly salary, then remembered that he would be making over eight _thousand_ pounds a month before taxes and rent and the debt, which he would not be making anywhere else.

_Of course, this is not exactly legitimate,_ he reminded himself.

"I'll do one year," he said, and Holmes grinned.

"Brilliant!"

"But I want one hundred and fifteen thousand and a five thousand pound furnishing allowance for the flat. I don't have any furniture."

This time, Holmes and Mitchell both grinned.

"One hundred and five thousand and you have your five thousand pound furnishing allowance."

"One hundred and ten."

"One hundred and seven."

"One hundred and nine."

"One hundred and eight."

John wavered, then nodded.

"One hundred and eight," he agreed, somewhat dazed beneath the surface that he'd just negotiated a salary over one hundred thousand pounds a year, when the average salary for a surgeon in the city was less than half of that.

"Done," Holmes agree with a smile and extended his hand. John shook it, still feeling a bit stunned.

"I'll have my secretary draw up the paper work, including the repayment schedule, and we will get you set up in our accounts system and whatnot. You can speak to her about your banking information and she will do all of the paperwork for the direct deposit. In the meantime," he rose and went to his desk, shuffling around in one of the drawers, "I shall write you a cheque for the five thousand immediately, because I would very much like if you could move in tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" John asked.

"Yes," Holmes said, glancing up. "I appreciate that you will have things to pack and the like, and that purchasing furniture does take time, and the flat does need to be cleaned, et cetera, but I do also want Mrs. Hudson at home. I spoke with her and you are welcome to stay in her spare bedroom overnight, should you wish."

John blinked, then realized something.

"So, when am I allowed to leave the flat if I'm supposed to be her security?" he asked. "Do I need to be there whenever she's there?"

"No, that would be impossible and I could hardly call on your medical services when needed if that were the case. I need a permanent and steady presence in the building, and prefer you to be there at night. Break ins are rare during the day, and the man who broke in and shot Gabriel did so late in the evening, shortly before nine. Having another tenant will be deterrent, particularly one who is a former soldier and quite an skilled marksman, given your army records."

John withheld questions about how Holmes had accessed those – the less he knew, the better.

"And if I want to go out of town?"

"You work for me," Holmes replied, signing off on a cheque and handing if over to John. "You need to clear holiday time with me in advance. You will have three paid weeks a year, should you choose to use them. This is a job, Doctor Watson. Granted, you are not working regular hours, but I think you'll find the pay, accommodations and demands far better than those you had in Afghanistan."

John took the cheque, wondering if he'd ever been handed this much money at once.

"Does he give you holiday time?" John asked on a whim, turning to Mitchell. The younger man grinned, green eyes bright.

"Oh yes," he said. "I usually go to France."

"Why France?"

"They have better food. And no alligators."

"Alligators?" John asked, but Holmes rolled his eyes as he sat down again, waving a hand at Mitchell, who grinned again.

"Doctor, now that you are officially in my employ, I have business for you. I'd like you to look at Gabriel's leg, please. The doctors from St. Mary's tell me it's healing properly, but it would put my mind at ease to have your opinion."

"St. Mary's?" John asked.

"Yes. Why? Should I be concerned?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so," John said, putting his cup and saucer down as Mitchell hiked up his trouser leg and unstrapped his walking cast. "I have a friend who works there, a nurse. In accident and emergency."

"Ah, well that makes me feel better," Holmes said with a smile, standing again to retrieve some bandages from a small first aid kit that was sitting on a shelf, but probably went wherever Mitchell did, John supposed. John checked the bandage Mitchell was wearing, happy with the way it looked, then unwound it, removing the gauze very carefully and examined the wound without touching it. He opened the first aid kit and pulled out a pair of gloves, snapping them on with practiced ease, then checked the wound more carefully, evaluating the colouring, the bruise, the stitching. He pressed gently on Mitchell's leg well below the injury.

"Can you feel that?" he asked.

With a mild grimace, Mitchell nodded.

"Any pain?"

"A bit. Not much."

"Sharp, stabbing, dull, burning?"

"Aching, I'd say."

John nodded. He did as thorough an examination as he could with the limited equipment he had, working his way down Mitchell's leg, then checking his sensation reactions on the sole of his foot before cleaning the area around the wound and rebandaging it.

"Looks fine," he said. "It's clean, you've got good sensation in your leg, no indications of infection, not too much pain, and very little swelling, which is a good sign."

"Good," Mitchell said with a smile. "Nice to know."

"How old are you, Mister Mitchell?" John asked.

"Twenty-five."

_Twenty-five_, John thought. And how long had he been a criminal?

"Well, you're young, you'll heal quickly and, by the looks of this already, well."

Holmes nodded at this, looking pleased. Mitchell strapped his cast back on, resettling his leg on the cushion he'd appropriated for that purpose, and looked round with John and Holmes when the office door opened again and Tina came in, looking urgently distressed. Holmes refocused fast and John frowned.

"What is it?" the taller man demanded.

"Sorry, boss, but –" she started and was cut off when a man strode into the office, half dragging another man with him, the second newcomer obviously injured at the shoulder and looking more than a little worse for the wear, with bruises on his face, cuts on his face and hands, and stumbling somewhat at the first man's quick pace, trying to keep up as he was half guided, half hauled by the elbow. John stood quickly, startled, suddenly aware he hadn't brought his gun and wishing he had.

The first man grinned at Holmes, a disarmingly bright grin that made John's blood go cold and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in warning. The sudden shift in Holmes' stance and expression didn't help matters either. He looked surprised and angry, which John thought was probably a very bad combination on a man like Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello, Sherlock, sorry for the interruption, but I really couldn't wait, I just couldn't! It's too exciting!" the new man said in a smooth, gleeful voice. Oily, John thought. He looked oily, too. Slick. And his eyes gleamed with a specialized madness John had occasionally seen in Afghanistan, with men you didn't want anywhere near a weapon or near you. Worse if they were supposed to be on your side, because you could never count on them to have your back. You could never count on them for anything.

"Hello, puppy," the man continued, grinning at Mitchell, who gave him a cool look in return. "How's the leg? Police given up on sniffing around yet?"

He switched his gaze to John, still grinning brightly.

"Hello, whoever you are. Sherlock, I have a present for you! It's like Christmas, all the fun of hunting down that one _perfect_ gift and the joy of delivering it in person! Puppy, you'll recognize him, I think, although he looks a bit worse than last time _you_ saw him. Did a good job on his shoulder, though. Sebastian did the rest, with his compliments."

With that, he shoved the second man forward, hard, letting him stumble and collapse unceremoniously on the polished hardwood floor.


	15. Chapter 15

John started to move instinctively toward the man on the floor, who was groaning in an unpleasantly gurgling way, but Holmes held out a hand, barely moving, and John froze where he was, keeping his attention trained on the newcomer with his bright and brittle grin and his gleaming eyes.

"Jim," Holmes said coolly, more for John's benefit the doctor thought, to at least give John some sense of who this man was. Jim tucked his hands casually into the pockets of his trousers, looking perfectly at ease in his suit, although it seemed a bit big on him, John thought, or he didn't wear it as well as Holmes wore his clothing.

"How many snipers do you have in my building?" Holmes continued, startling John back to the conversation.

Jim grinned.

"Oh, five, ten maybe. Have to keep security in their place, you know. And I needed a hand or two to get him up here." He nodded at the man on the floor, who was half curled up, making no attempt to stand. John didn't blame him. "Oh, don't look so _tedious_, Sherlock! You'll give yourself wrinkles!"

To John's surprise, Jim gave a feigned pout before grinning again, actually winking at Sherlock.

"You don't want to mess with that exotically pale beauty, do you? No, didn't think so. Wouldn't sit well with your admirers, I should think. Isn't that right, puppy?"

He turned his grin on Mitchell, who only arched an eyebrow in response.

"You tell me, James," Mitchell said and John saw the momentary flash of distaste on Jim's face at the full name. "You're the one who can't help but find excuses to see him."

At this, Jim sneered, rolling his eyes.

"I bring you this _lovely_ present and this is the thanks I get?" he sniffed, then sighed, sounding entirely put upon. "Oh, where do manners go these days? Young people, no sense of _respect._"

He paused, considering Mitchell carefully and John noted that Holmes stiffened but held his ground, standing partway between Jim and the groaning man on the floor.

John cast a glance at the injured man, trying to assess the extent and nature of his wounds – obviously he'd been shot by Mitchell, but had it been treated? It must have been, at least to some extent, because this had been a week ago, and he would have died by now, most likely, or been in far, far worse condition than he was. John had seen untreated gunshot wounds and knew far too well what they could do to a person. For starters, they tended to turn that person into a body.

"But perhaps I'll give you _some_ leniency. You were shot, after all, in the knee, which Sebastian absolutely _assures_ me is extremely painful. Does it hurt? May I see?"

Moving faster than John had expected, Jim took several steps toward Mitchell, who looked alarmed, tensing up with realization that he was seated and couldn't move easily. He saw Holmes start to move toward the couch, toward the younger man, but John was closer and quicker. He took two fast steps, interjecting himself physically between Mitchell – technically his patient at the moment – and Jim.

"Oh _ho_!" Jim laughed, stopping short and Holmes froze where he was, giving John a glare which John ignored, keeping his gaze on the madman in front of him. "What is this? Puppy, do you have a guard dog? How very apropos! Or perhaps, Sherlock, you have a new pet? Look at you, so quick and protective, hmm? Who are you, then?"

John didn't answer, but folded his arms, tilted his head very slightly, raised his eyebrows and gave Jim his best captain's glare.

Jim looked startled for only the barest of fleeting moments, then grinned again.

"Look at this!" he said, clapping his hands in delight. "So vicious! Sherlock, where _do_ you find them? So loyal for someone so new! And you _must_ be new, or else I'd know who you are by now. Oh, the puppy thinks I'm _interested _in Sherlock, don't you, puppy, but really, it's just good business. What do they say? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? So much easier for me." He grinned at John again, that mad glint shining in his eyes. "Don't have any friends, you know."

_You don't say_, John thought, standing his ground, hoping the little unwanted bit of mental sarcasm didn't show in his face.

Judging by Jim's grin, it had.

"Did he follow you home?" he asked, pointing at John, looking at Holmes with glee. "You've such a good pet already! May I have this one?"

"No, you may not," Holmes said, folding his arms. "Where did you find him, Jim?"

"What, that?" Jim asked, gesturing dismissively with one hand at the figure on the floor. "Oh, psh, Sherlock, _boooring_! Why talk about him when there's something so much more interesting right here? Besides, it's so boring to talk about someone who can barely talk himself at the moment, isn't it? I'd much rather talk about this one."

"I wouldn't," Holmes said in a flat, steely voice. "Where did you find him?"

"Oh, all right!" Jim said, throwing his hands up, putting on a look of feigned resignation. John had an inkling that most of this man's facial expressions were probably faked, but faked with care and attention to the situation.

_Psychopath_, he thought and felt a chill run down his back. Behind him, Mitchell shifted on the couch to sit with his feet resting on the floor. The doctor in John wanted to tell him not to do that, because it was best to have no weight at all, even passive weight, on a soft tissue injury. The captain in John approved, because he could stand and defend himself more easily that way. Reach for his weapon more readily, too.

"Had some of my boys sniffing around," Jim said.

"So did I," Sherlock replied.

"Well," Jim commented with a grin. "Perhaps mine are more willing to get their hands dirty."

_Bet you're not_, John thought and Holmes' grey eyes flashed to him for a moment, as if he'd heard that, then slid back to Jim.

Holmes cocked an eyebrow, waiting.

"He was hiding out in some _dreary_ little house in Barnet, waiting for the heat to die down so he could dash back home. Mister Williams joins us from _America_, isn't that exotic? Ever been, you?" he asked, addressing John suddenly, who refused to answer, keeping his captain's glare in place.

"I have," Jim said conversationally. "Sherlock and the puppy, too. Fascinating place, so much to see and do, such a challenge with all of their laws and the death penalty in some states, got to keep on top of which ones have it and which ones don't, but it's always fun to push your luck, isn't it?"

He glanced again at the man on the floor, Williams, and sniffed in disdain.

"Don't know _why_ you'd want to go running home, Will," he said. "Your boss can't be very pleased you failed. Didn't get Martha, didn't even manage to kill the guard dog. But probably best for you that you didn't, eh?" He gave the man a bright, sudden grin, even though Williams was obviously in no position to see or acknowledge it.

"Sherlock would have been _very cross_ had you killed his puppy."

John wondered what the literal pet name was about, but the way Holmes' jaw tightened clarified that for him and he thought Mitchell was right – this Jim was clearly interested in Holmes in a very psychotic way.

He wished again that he had his gun, and maybe Jamie as backup, because although the former mechanic couldn't speak, he could still shoot. He felt a flash of anger that this very typical looking man, who did not even appear to be that strong, was holding two seasoned criminals and one seasoned army veteran at bay just by sheer dint of his madness.

But that was the trick, wasn't it? Holmes and Mitchell could be reasoned with – in fact, they had brought a reasonable solution to John about Harry's debt.

There was no telling what Jim would do.

"What do you want, Jim?" Holmes enquired coolly.

"Oh, _so _many things, Sherlock! Won't part with your pet yet, will you? No, I thought not," he said with a sigh. "What about this new one?"

"No," Holmes replied flatly.

"Oh, you're so _predictable_, it's no fun! You, new boy, you need to teach him to have fun. He works far too much, you know. Work, work, work. Never gets out to _play._ Can't have you becoming so _dull_, can we, Sherlock? Make sure he doesn't do it to you. You look like you need some fun in your life, too. Have a drink, loosen your collar, _live_ a little. No? Oh."

He shot Sherlock a very convincing disappointed look.

"What I want is not to have bloody _foreigners_ invading my city without my knowledge or permission," he continued in a casual tone, making his words sound oddly reasonable.

_His city_, John noted, seeing the flash of distaste in Holmes' face. _Oh, for the love of – _His_ city, too. They're both idiots._

"I don't like having people shooting your people, because it may lead to people shooting my people. There are only so many things Sebastian can do, after all, and bullets flying everywhere is _not_ good for business. Too many bobbies sniffing around, too much talk, not enough money changing hands, not enough money changing hands into _my _hands. How am I supposed to get any work done when strangers are running loose shooting people I know and trust?"

"You don't trust anyone, Jim," Holmes said.

"Nonsense! I trust you! I trust you to be _dull_ and never want to _play_ and I trust you not to trust me, so it evens out quite nicely, don't you think? I trust your puppy to be endlessly loyal. I trust Cheryl not to shoot Sebastian if Sebastian does not shoot Cheryl. Trust all around, you see?"

He spread his arms and grinned and Williams groaned on the floor. John really wanted to check him out, but sensed that moving would be a bad option until this man was gone, and that Holmes was moving as fast as he could to get him gone as quickly as possible.

"Let's call it a favour for now," Jim said.

"You don't do favours."

Jim pouted.

"I do you favours all the time! I'm hurt, Sherlock, I really am. But do I want anything? Not right now. Can't think of a single thing. Really, I can't. Nothing you'd give me anyway, so no point in arguing. You're remarkably stubborn, do you know that? Your brother certainly thinks so."

To his credit, Holmes didn't rise to the bait that would have made John react, even a little, keeping his arms crossed, keeping his cool gaze level.

"But I'm sure I'll think of _something_ one of these days. I'll send you a card when I do. Shall I leave him with you? I could have Sebastian do the work, but you might like the honours."

"Take your snipers and get out of my building, Jim. If you do this again, it will go badly for you. Snipers or not."

"Oh, well," Jim said, shrugging and grinning. "Far be it for me to impose on your hospitality any more than necessary. You should work on that though, Sherlock. Didn't even offer me a drink. Or Will here a seat."

Holmes said nothing.

"Don't come after me, Sherlock, really don't," Jim warned, his grin disappearing suddenly, his voice lower, deadly serious. "You have what you wanted right here. Keep the police off of your back, off of mine. Too much trouble with them these days."

He paused, then grinned again.

"Ta!" he said before nearly skipping out, the sudden shift in attitude and the bizarre movement leaving John stunned. Sherlock strode toward the door, waiting there until apparently satisfied that Jim and whoever may have been with him were off the floor, then crossed the floor to his desk, picking up the phone and dialling a number.

John went toward Williams but Mitchell said:

"No, don't, Doctor. Wait."

John hesitated, but listened, glancing down at the younger man, seeing the warning in his eyes, the years of experience giving his command weight.

_Twenty-five_, John thought, _And he bloody well knows how to handle this and doesn't even look all that shocked._

He himself felt shocked, to the core.

_First day at work, eh? What'll I tell Jamie? Oh yes, it was fine. Checked out a patient, was half held hostage by a psychopath. You know. Typical stuff._

Holmes got off the phone after ensuring the Jim and his snipers had left, and ordering security to sweep the whole building and lock it down until they'd ascertained no one was there who should not be.

John started toward Williams again.

"Please don't touch him, Doctor Watson," Holmes said, holding up a hand.

"He needs a doctor. You hired me to do this for you," John snapped.

"I know he needs a doctor, but I also need you nowhere near him. This man is wanted by the police, Doctor, for shooting Gabriel. This is messy enough as it is. I will take care of it, because this is what _I_ do. What I need you to do right now is take your actual patient home to his flat and _stay there_ until you hear from me."

"Sherlock –" Mitchell started.

"No, you will listen to me, Gabriel. I am not doing this to pander to you. I am doing this to keep you further from the reach of the police. You were shot and you are nowhere near at your best at the moment. And you are still my employee."

John started a bit at this – he'd thought they were business partners, but he shook this off, realizing he probably didn't entirely understand the whole structure here, nor the nature of the relationships.

"Who was that?" he demanded.

"That was Jim Moriarty, Doctor, the man I warned you about yesterday. Hence the warning."

"What's with the whole 'puppy' thing?"

Mitchell answered, cutting Holmes off before he could speak.

"He does it to annoy Sherlock. Yes, he does, don't shake your head at me, it doesn't bother me in the slightest, but it bothers you and he _knows_ it. Anything he can do, Doctor. He likes to play with the situation, with people's reactions. You need stop letting it get to you. It doesn't matter what he bloody calls me. He's never going to get me and he knows that, too."

Holmes glared at Mitchell but the younger man held his gaze firmly and John saw a flash of irritation pass through Holmes' eyes.

"Take him home, Doctor Watson, if you'd be so good," Holmes snapped then, gesturing to Mitchell. "The guards will let you out of the building if you're with him. Please see to it that you remain with him."

John nodded, helping Mitchell stand, noting that the younger man, although getting better with his crutches, was looking a little worse for the wear. It was astonishing what effects anaesthetic could have even a week later, and how much of the body's energy was used up in recovery and repair. He knew it firsthand himself.

"Are you sure you don't need help here?" John asked, hesitant to leave Holmes alone with the groaning man on the floor.

"I've cleaned up much worse than this, Doctor, believe me. You do what you do best, and I shall do what I do best. Understand?"

John nodded, opening the door for Mitchell, who shuffled out.

"Tina, you may leave," Holmes said, coming to the door. "Go with Gabriel and Doctor Watson, they'll see you home first. Are you all right?"

The woman nodded, looking pale but firm, eyes bright with both fear and defiance. John wondered how many times she'd been subject to something like this in her job. Probably not a normal secretary's job after all.

"Brilliant, boss," she said.

Holmes nodded and shut his office door with a firm click. John herded his charges to the lift and went down the parking garage, where Mitchell had a car come round to meet them, the driver getting out silently and efficiently to open the doors for them.

It was only when he was settling into his seat and clicking his seatbelt into place that John realized he'd left his cane in Holmes' office.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** This is a little longer than I intended, but I hope you all like it nonetheless.

* * *

><p>He stayed at Mitchell's flat for several hours without hearing from Holmes, trying not to gawk at the size of the place, which was significantly larger than his new flat. John felt uncertain as to how he'd spend one more night in his tiny halfway house flat, knowing what awaited him.<p>

He took the opportunity to properly assess Mitchell's injury and change the bandage. He'd have felt better being able to view some x-rays, to get an idea of what the breaks looked like, and to see his medical files for the details of the treatments, including the surgery.

When he mentioned this to Mitchell, the younger man assured him that he could get John this information. He must have seen the look of suspicion on John's face, because he said, with a smile:

"You're not the only one who knows someone who works there, Doctor."

John raised an eyebrow at him, but Mitchell said nothing else.

When Holmes finally returned, he handed John his cane without a word about it, and John took it, gripping it in his right hand out of habit, but feeling less inclined to use it. His therapist had always suggested the limp was psychosomatic and he wondered if she'd been wrong about why. She'd maintained he had post traumatic stress disorder, but what if it were the opposite? Was there an opposite? Post traumatic boredom disorder?

He had, after all, forgotten both the cane and his limp the moment something stressful and uncertain had happened.

He wasn't a psychiatrist, but that didn't sound like PTSD to him.

"Police are coming," Holmes said without preamble or explanation. Mitchell nodded as though he'd anticipated this, but John was surprised. He had not really expected a man like Holmes to involve the police and was taken aback at the speed by which it had happened.

But – he glanced out of one of the large windows – it was well past dark already, and they had drained away most of the day and evening waiting for Holmes, who hadn't bothered to explain where he'd been or what he'd been doing.

John glanced at his cane, knowing if he were caught here when the police arrived, they would ask about it, want to know about him, about his past, about why a former army doctor was working for someone like Holmes – presumably the police didn't know he was a criminal, because he was still wandering about free, but it would look strange nonetheless.

Without it he was just another doctor, wasn't he?

So he tucked it against the edge of the couch, behind an end table, near Mitchell, who glanced at him in surprise. Holmes only cocked an eyebrow, then sighed when the intercom buzzed and went off to answer it.

"Fine," he said to the unheard voice on the other end. "Send them up."

He waited at the door for several minutes, John setting himself up so it looked like he was checking Mitchell's wound again, turning when Holmes strode back in with two police officers, both of them in plain clothes but still very obviously cops. One of them was a man in his late forties or perhaps very early fifties, with greying hair and blue eyes, the other was a woman who looked a bit younger than John, maybe closer to Holmes' age, with curly black hair and dark eyes that were watching Holmes suspiciously, almost angrily.

"Oh," Holmes said, turning back to point at her. "Constable Donovan, isn't it?"

"_Sergeant_ Donovan now, sir," she replied. "I knew I recognised your name when it came up last week. And his," she nodded to Mitchell, who only raised an eyebrow at her. "Got yourself into trouble again, have you?"

"I was shot, Sergeant," Mitchell replied coolly. "I didn't go looking for it. I should hope it never happens to you, but if it does, you'll understand."

John was puzzled by this, but no explanation seemed forthcoming.

Holmes glowered at the woman, then plunked himself down on the couch right next to Mitchell, no space between them whatsoever. John was surprised at the intimacy of it, but then realis

ed he had no reason to be – he had no real idea what their relationship was.

"Who are you?" the older man demanded.

"Doctor John Watson," John said, straightening himself from strapping Mitchell's cast back on, which he'd really just unstrapped to do that. "His physician. Who are you?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the other man replied.

"Doctor Watson was just leaving," Holmes snapped and John nodded.

"No, he wasn't," the DI replied and this did not surprise John at all. "Not now. Mister Mitchell, we found the man who shot you."

At this, Mitchell and Holmes both reacted with genuine shock, or what would have been genuine shock if John hadn't been present early that afternoon to know this. He wondered what Holmes had done in the intervening hours, knowing he'd probably never find out.

"What?" Mitchell asked. "Where? When?"

The DI ignored that, and nodded at the cane resting by the couch.

"Whose cane is that?" he asked.

"Mine," Mitchell said. "I won't be on the crutches permanently, you know."

"Bit hasty, isn't it?"

"I don't like the crutches."

The DI gave him a long look, then shrugged.

"Do I really need to be here?" John asked.

"You're staying, Doctor Watson. No one is leaving his flat until I'm satisfied as to where all three of you were this afternoon. We found your shooter barely alive, although someone had treated his gunshot wound. Sounds like something a doctor could do, doesn't it?"

John crossed his arms.

"Yes, it does," he agreed. "Provided that doctor wasn't busy taking care of Mister Mitchell and provided that doctor knew who the shooter was. I don't. There are more doctors in this city than just me, Inspector. I'm good, but not that good."

The DI glared at him and John got the impression Holmes was trying not to laugh. He settled into a chair to get off his leg, which did hurt a bit, even though he told himself this was not real pain.

The police stayed for some time, the DI obviously suspicious about the entire situation, but Holmes and Mitchell lied with practiced ease, weaving in more than enough truth into their story to make it believable and solid. John said little, letting them do the talking, knowing that was best. He answered only when directly addressed, and then only with the least amount of information possible, his tone curt, indicating he was impatient and offended at being implicated because he was a _doctor_. His job was to help people, not hurt them.

Eventually, the DI and the sergeant had to concede defeat to what looked like the truth, but arranged to have Mitchell come down to the station and try to identify his attacker from a series of mug shots – a line up wouldn't work, since the man could probably not even stand and was fairly seriously injured, although John was only supposed to know that from the description Lestrade gave of how he'd been when the police had found him. They were all warned not to leave the city, and John had no intentions of doing so.

He went back to the halfway house for the last time, spent the night packing his precious few belongings, visited Jamie the next morning, then left for Central London with two suitcases stowed in the back of the cab, the five thousand pound cheque still in his wallet.

He bought furniture over the course of a week, starting with a good bed, alternating between purchasing new things and scouring the Oxfam shop for things like plates and glasses and some unexpected finds, such as an old oak dresser that was still in good shape if in need of a new coat of varnish, a coffee table that he liked more than any other he'd seen, a small bookshelf for his bedroom. The varnishing project gave him something to do when he had no other responsibilities except to be at the flat.

Holmes had returned his cane at one point, and John had put it in his closet and tried not to use it, which was surprisingly less difficult than he'd anticipated.

It wasn't his leg that had hurt, he realised slowly. It had been his life.

He woke up a few times the first several days, uncertain as to where he was, but gradually the feeling faded, although the flat still felt big, and somehow empty.

The situation with the police seemed to resolve itself, Holmes and Mitchell managing to convince the suspicious officers of their innocence, which John supposed was mostly accurate, at least in this case. He learned that they were involved in international real estate, which had made him want to snort sarcastically – he supposed it had a certain grain of truth, if he considered their jobs as transferring ownership of property.

Best just to do that.

All in all, he wasn't much in demand yet. He went round to Mitchell's flat every few days to check on his recovery and, as promised, Mitchell got John his medical files and x-rays and John checked these with a practiced eye, then sent him for more x-rays, which were delivered by medical courier to John's flat.

He set up an office of sorts in the upstairs bedroom, needing somewhere to store Mitchell's medical files that wasn't in plain view nor in his own bedroom. The younger man was healing well and John was not surprised – he was lucky for someone who had been shot, since he had not been shot in a vital area near any arteries and the injury certainly wasn't as bad as it could have been. It had helped, of course, that he'd received immediate medical care in London.

John had been tempted to ask Bill if the nurse remembered Mitchell being admitted to the A&E, but then decided against dragging Bill into it. Only Jamie knew the full details about John's new job.

And he steadfastly refused John's offers to move into the flat, despite the fact that John didn't really need the upstairs bedroom. He didn't want charity, he insisted. John wasn't pleased, but didn't argue, knowing it was pointless to try, in part because he understood.

He took the time to make his situation clear to Harry, who was shocked and outraged and embarrassed and promised to get help and started attending meetings, but John didn't put much stock into that. She'd said all of this before and had never carried through. He mentioned this to Holmes, who said he'd see what could be done, and John didn't want to ask about that, either. He considered Holmes was unlikely to have Harry hurt, since he was getting repayment from John for her debt and had wanted to avoid unnecessary complications by offering John a job in the first place.

And he seemed genuinely concerned about Mitchell. Whenever John went round to check on the younger man, Holmes was there, glaring at the wound in a particularly offended way, as though its existence was an affront to him. Once, he had asked John abruptly:

"Doctor, don't you think the location is unfortunate? It will leave a scar that will be visible when he wears a kilt."

John had glanced over his shoulder in confusion at the tall man standing a little way behind him in Mitchell's living room.

"What? Why would he be wearing a kilt?" he asked while, at the same time, Mitchell covered his eyes with one hand and muttered:

"Oh, Lord."

John was having a difficult time pinning down their relationship, but had settled on them being personal partners as well as business partners. He had no other explanation for the way they acted around one another, but had to admit he hadn't seen any overt displays of affection.

Well, maybe they just weren't like that. Certainly not everyone was.

About a week and a half after he'd moved into his new flat, John was working on sanding the old dresser, clad in old jeans and a second-hand tee-shirt, when the buzzer for his flat rang. He wiped his hands on a rag and hurried down the stairs, wondering who it was, hoping it was Jamie, maybe he'd actually just take John up on his offer and move out of that depressing halfway house.

But he opened the door to the cold February air and Gabriel Mitchell, who was thanking a cabbie for his help and receiving a wave in return.

"Mister Mitchell?" he asked, somewhat surprised. Mitchell turned back to him, adjusting his position slightly on his crutches, and arched an eyebrow.

"You don't have to call me that, you know," he said. "You're my doctor. I should be the one standing on formality. Plus, I hate it. Mister Mitchell is my father, not me."

John just nodded, standing back, letting Mitchell in.

"Don't you have cars to drive you round?" he asked.

"Yes, I do, but Sherlock checks their logs and I didn't want him to know I'd come here."

John shut the door and locked it again. Mrs. Hudson was out on errands, so wasn't there to come out and say hello to Mitchell, for whom she obviously had a soft spot.

"Why? Something wrong?"

"No," Mitchell replied, shaking his head. "But I would actually like to talk to you about my leg _without_ Sherlock hovering behind you being paranoid and overbearing."

"He does seem a bit protective," John admitted.

Mitchell chuckled dryly.

"_That_ is an understatement. Do you mind?"

"No, of course not," John said, and made his way back upstairs, Mitchell following slowly. Navigating the steep stairs was still slower going for John, too – his leg didn't like them, no matter what he told himself about psychosomatic injuries. But his cane was in his closet, gathering dust.

Mitchell settled himself on John's sofa, propping his leg up and shaking off his ever-present crutches, letting out a sigh.

"Tea?" John asked.

"Water, if you don't mind."

John got him a glass and then got his medical kit – he'd been building it up since he'd moved in, having gotten half his first month's pay in advance to help him do so, and the upstairs bedroom now contained a small veritable pharmacy as John compiled everything he thought was necessary for an emergency or a routine visit. Eventually he'd need some more expensive equipment, but he was well established for the present.

"Let's have a look," he said, unstrapping the cast. "Any complaints?"

"Yes, actually," Mitchell said and John glanced up at him. "My left leg hurts a lot. I get spasms in it when I'm sleeping sometimes, too."

John nodded.

"That's common," he said, and didn't miss the flash of relief on Mitchell's face. "You're putting all of your weight on your left leg, so it's carrying much more strain than it should. It's already a lot stronger, but it will probably always be a little problematic until you can start putting weight on your right again."

"And how long will that be?"

"Given your injury, six weeks."

"Six weeks altogether, or six more weeks?"

"Six weeks from the time you were shot, minimum. When it comes up to that, I'll see how you're doing. Better safe than sorry, with soft tissue injuries. I know it's not what you want to hear. And when you do put weight back on it, it will only be half weight, so don't think you're losing your crutches then."

Mitchell sighed, shaking his head as John unwound his bandage and checked the healing wound carefully, then cleaned it.

"This is so stupid," Mitchell complained and for a moment, John heard the impatient twenty-five year old. He smiled to himself.

"I know. But being shot isn't simple."

"Well, I believe you on _that_."

"You'll be fine if you listen to me and take care of it."

"I will," Mitchell promised.

"Spasms in your right leg, too?" John asked.

"Yes, again, usually when I'm sleeping."

"Are they keeping you from sleeping?"

"Once or twice."

"How recently?"

"Um, two days ago and four or five days ago."

"How bad? How often were they keeping you awake?"

"They wake me up."

"I'm going to give you a prescription for some muscle relaxants, then. I want you to take one before you go to bed, all right? It will help with that. You need to sleep uninterrupted as much as possible. It will speed things up."

"I don't think I could sleep much more if I tried."

"Your body knows what it needs," John assured him.

Mitchell nodded, then was distracted when his phone rang.

"Sorry," he said, fishing it out of his pocket.

"Yes, what is it?" he answered, then paused, before a frown of irritation crossed his features. "What? Well, no, of course you can't find them. That's because I hid them. What do you mean, why do would I do that? To stop you from nicking them! You're always taking them and not returning them. What? No, _no_, Sherlock, they do _not _belong to you."

He paused again, looking disbelieving.

"No, that is _not_ how it works. Just because you pay my salary does not mean something I purchase is technically yours. No, it doesn't! No, I'm not telling you where they are. I said I hid them. What would be the point of hiding them if I told you where they were?"

Another pause, then Mitchell looked alarmed.

"Don't you dare! What? _What?_ No, that doesn't make it _your_ flat, either! It's my flat! I don't care if you own the building! Get out of my flat and leave my things alone! You wouldn't. How would I clean everything up like this? Don't you dare! Look, if you want your own set, go round to the shops and buy one! They aren't that expensive nor that hard to find! What, no you can't just have mine and I can just buy a new set. That's hardly fair! They belong to me!"

He paused again, rolling his eyes.

"Absolutely not. No, I don't care. Sherlock – what, for God's sake – Argh. Fine, fine. Fine. They're in the closet in the first spare bedroom. You'll bring them back, right? No, of course you won't. You know what, just take them. I'll get a new set. It would serve you right if I nicked your card to buy them. Oh, what, you'd just take it off my pay anyway. You are the most insufferable – Dammit!"

He pulled the phone away from his ear and glared at it, then hung up on his end with a sigh.

"Of course he hangs up as soon as he gets what he wants," Mitchell muttered. "Sorry, John, honestly, sometimes it's like dealing with a fully grown child."

John noted this was the first time Mitchell had used his name but let it slide.

"What was he after?"

"My Doctor Who DVDs. He can afford his own set, obviously, but seems to take some perverse joy in just stealing mine. His logic being, of course, that if he pays me, then he's technically bought it. Which he only does when he wants something I have."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Fully grown child, like I said."

The doctor shook his head.

"Can I ask you something?" he enquired, strapping Mitchell's cast back on with now-practiced ease.

"Yes, sure."

"How did he get you?"

"Sorry?"

"I mean, how did you end up working for him? You said the day you met me you'd known him for eight years, which would put you at seventeen. Seems young to – start a job like this."

"Seems young to become a career criminal, you mean?" Mitchell asked pointedly.

"Yes," John said levelly. "What did he have on you?"

Mitchell gave him a confused look, then his expression darkened.

"Oh, you mean, how did he blackmail me into working for him, yes? Because that's what you think he did to you?"

"It _is_ what he did to me."

"No, John, what he did was offer you a job at a very high salary _in return_ for paying off Harriet's debt, which, by the way, we did tell you that you did not have to do if you chose not to. This was your choice. Admittedly, it wasn't much of a choice, granted, but given what you're getting out of it, it's not so bad, is it? A flat, a one hundred and eight thousand pound per year salary, a good health plan, paid holiday leave, a way out of that depressing halfway house?"

John glared at him but Mitchell just shook his head.

"And you assume that what he did to you, he did to me? Why would you think that? He needed a doctor with combat experience and the best way to get you was through your sister. Maybe you think that's blackmail. He thinks of it as good business practice. So do I. We get what we wanted, you get what you wanted, Harriet gets out of debt. No fuss, no mess.

"And I get that you're upset with your sister, because you think she dropped you into this because she's an alcoholic with a gambling problem who is incautious enough to get herself into trouble with men like us, but you've _seen_ who else she could have gotten into trouble with. What do you prefer, John? You can't make her not be an addict, but you'd be wrong to think this isn't helping. You work for us, which means Sherlock is loyal to _you. _Oh yes, I understand that you think he can't be because he's a criminal and I'm a criminal and we're all bloody criminals, right? You have no idea. None. What do you think would have happened to Harriet had it not been Sherlock? Had it been anyone else? Had it been Jim?

"Do you think there's no loyalty? Do you think maybe you and your army mates have a monopoly on that? Do you think we're all incapable of caring about one another? Because you'd be wrong on that. _Dead_ wrong. I don't care what you think you know about Sherlock, because, trust me, you don't."

"Well obviously for you," John said. "Since you and he are, um…"

"What? We're what? No, we are _not_ um significant pause, John. We have _never_ been um significant pause. He is my mentor and boss and most days he's like an overprotective older brother, and some days he's like a irritating and frustrating younger brother for all that he's seven years older than me. We are _friends_, John, and he's the best and closest friend I've ever had, yes, and I can't say it's not more, but it's not more in the way you're thinking. He got me out of a really bad situation and tried his absolute best to make sure it never came back around to find me. He really did. And I don't expect you to understand that, because you're thinking a bad situation would be like Harriet, where I got roped into working for him not entirely of my own will because someone I know owed him something.

"Let me tell you, someone I know owes _me_ something. You want to talk about siblings who make bad choices, John? You want to feel justified feeling irritated with your sister while you sit in a flat that's rent reduced by what, three-quarters, pulling in a salary that would easily let you pay the whole of the rent, getting paid for what has, so far, been very little stressful work? Barring the incident with Jim, which, believe me, was fairly calm and controlled, for Jim.

"Sure, you go ahead and feel cheated because Harriet owes us money. You go ahead and feel angry at us, angry at her, angry at Sherlock for giving you this choice. You can complain to yourself all you want about her addictions and poor decisions and et cetera. But she got herself into trouble with _money_, John. She got our attention because she owed us only money."

John opened his mouth to interject, but Mitchell kept talking, his voice hard now, his expression darker, angrier.

"You want to know about sibling rivalry? No, not even rivalry, that sounds too jovial, like maybe we're just jockeying for attention. You want to know about me, John? You want to know what happened to me? Sherlock gave me a job based on my merits and got me out of somewhere that was dangerous for me, but it wasn't quite enough. Because while Harriet's debt followed you, my brother himself followed me. Followed me after I was visiting my mum when was eighteen and he was twenty-three, followed me with one of his mates, followed me until I was out of sight of my mum's house, so she'd never know, dragged me into an alley and beat the crap out of me. Beat me until I couldn't stand and then a little more for good measure. Two twenty-three year old men against an eighteen year old kid."

He gestured angrily to the scar on his left cheek that John had noted but had never really questioned – most people had old scars that were just there, of no consequence.

"Why?" John asked, appalled and stunned.

"Because, like you, he had a fundamental misunderstanding about my relationship with Sherlock. Because he mistakes being bisexual for being gay and assumes it's all the same and all immoral anyway. Because he's homophobic and intolerant and dangerous and just a terrible human being.

"So, yes, you can judge Sherlock all you want, but maybe you should judge him knowing that he tried to get me out of that, and he got me through it afterwards, when him and Cheryl were the _only_ people I could stand to be around. You want to think he's selfish and dangerous? Fine. Maybe you should know that he would sit up with me when I slept so he could wake me up when I started having nightmares. Maybe you should know he dealt with the situation because I didn't want to go to the police. Maybe you should know he kept the police away from me, and my mother, my own bloody mother who didn't want to believe me, because it was easier to think I was lying than to think Richard had assaulted me. Maybe you should know he took care of a terrified eighteen year old kid because he actually does care, because I am actually his friend."

Mitchell shifted, grabbing his crutches, swinging himself to standing with what was now practiced ease. Then he paused, regarding John with narrowed green eyes.

"He gave you a job, a flat, and your life back, John. He gave you a chance. You should consider at least trying to give him the same."

* * *

><p>John hesitated, but looked out the window as Mitchell left, because he was still John's patient, despite John being uncertain as to what he thought about the information Mitchell had given him. He was finding it hard to consider Harry's actions quite so bad in light of what Mitchell had told him about his brother.<p>

He watched the younger man make his way to the edge of the pavement and raise his left hand for a cab. He got one in short order and John watched him get in with only some difficulty.

He was about to turn away when he noticed someone pull out of the crowd and circle round to the other side quickly and slip in. John frowned, drawing away from the window slightly in surprise. That was unexpected, wasn't it? Mitchell hardly seemed the type to split a cab. And it had seemed too abrupt for a fare share.

He saw Mitchell react inside the car and John could see even from where he was that it was a startled reaction. Before John could do any more than realise that, the cab pulled away into the traffic and was vanishing up the street.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** This was my last day of vacation, so this is the end of so much posting in so short a time. I will leave you with this and promises of more soon-ish.

* * *

><p>Gabriel was still tense, half berating himself for letting his temper go like that, so that the cab door opening startled him and he glanced up in surprise, ready to point out that the cab was taken as another man in a dark bomber jacket slid in.<p>

"'Afternoon, Gabe," said an apparently friendly voice and Gabriel stared into the familiar face, the unexpectedness of it jarring him with the irony that he'd _just_ been ranting to John Watson about this man.

His brother grinned disarmingly at him and Gabriel tried to remember that he needed to breathe.

He reached instinctively for the door and heard the decided click of the locks from the front as his fingers wrapped around the handle. He pulled anyway, even though he knew immediately the locks would have been set in the front, at the driver's control.

With a swift movement, Richard snagged the crutches that lay on Gabriel's left, between them, and tossed them casually into the front seat, through the small opening in the glass that separated the cabbie from them. The fake cabbie, evidently.

Gabriel clamped down on an instinctive movement to reach for them and understood he was trapped – he couldn't walk without them, not yet. John had said six weeks, and he could imagine if he tried now, how much it would hurt.

And he was without his gun because he'd just been going to have John look at his leg. He didn't wear his weapon everywhere.

He should have.

_Jesus_, he thought, _God._

"Looking a bit pale, there," Richard commented, still smiling. "You should be taking better care of yourself."

Gabriel swallowed, reining down on the fear, hard, trying to keep his breathing level, his heartbeat steady.

_He's not going to do anything to you_, he tried to tell himself. _You're in a cab. People can see you._

And, last time, Richard had pulled him off of a street and no one had noticed or cared enough to notice.

"What do you want, Richard?" he asked, glad at least his voice sounded steady, if a bit more tense than he wanted.

Richard just shrugged.

"Came to see how you were doing, Gabe. Heard you got shot. Wanted to make sure my baby brother was all right."

Gabriel drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"You didn't care so much last time," he managed.

Richard leaned forward, grinning again, and Gabriel pulled back, instantly reprimanding himself for doing so, for not standing his ground, seeing the triumphant gleam in his brother's hazel eyes.

He reached for his pocket, for his phone, and Richard moved fast, hand snaking out to grab Gabriel's wrist, arching an eyebrow at him.

"No, no," he said. "None of that, Gabe." He squeezed lightly for emphasis. "Right now I'm just doing that to your wrist. You don't want me to do it to your bad leg, do you?"

Gabriel held his brother's gaze and Richard let go slowly, watching Gabriel settle his hand back down on his leg, unable to keep his fingers from curling into a fist.

"You're a bit wound up. You should really learn to relax more."

"What do you want, Richard?" Gabriel forced himself to ask. "What do you really want? No lies about wanting to see how I'm doing. You don't care."

Richard shrugged, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat.

"Think what you want," he said. "Someone shot my little brother. Defending an old woman living alone, _very_ noble of you, Gabe. Almost community minded, isn't it?"

_It's civic minded_, Gabriel thought, startled he would think something so banal while trapped in a car with his brother.

_Mikey's dead_, he reminded himself. _And Sherlock will kill him if he tries anything._

But Sherlock wasn't there. Sherlock knew Gabriel wasn't home, but that was it, and he probably wasn't fussed about Gabriel being out, since he had no pressing work that day. He'd want to know where Gabriel had been, of course, because he was nosey and overprotective, or, from his point of view, concerned and involved, but he would wait until he saw Gabriel next.

_What if he doesn't?_ Gabriel asked himself, then desperately wished he hadn't thought that.

And it didn't matter what Sherlock would do, or what he'd had done to Mikey, Richard's friend, because Sherlock was not there, not trapped in a cab with Richard, not aware there was any problem.

_Stupid, Gabe, stupid, should have gotten one of the drivers. You're really brilliant, aren't you?_

He tried to remember how long it had last been since he'd taken his painkillers, what time he'd left John's, anything to keep himself from thinking about what his brother could do.

Automatically, he catalogued where they were going, driving south and then southeast, toward the river. This was a skill Sherlock had trained into him from the beginning.

_Oh, God, the river_, Gabriel thought. How many people went in and never came out, were never found?

His phone rang, making him jump.

_Be Sherlock, be Sherlock, be Sherlock_, he thought, because Sherlock would be concerned if Gabriel didn't answer. He'd start looking.

He might not even be too late.

"Give me that," Richard ordered. Gabriel hesitated, then fished the phone out of his pocket. Richard took it before he could see the name and number of the screen and tossed it into the front as well.

"Turn that off," he ordered the driver, who gave him a grin in the rear-view mirror and did so.

"Jesus, Gabe, don't look so tense!" Richard admonished, slapping him lightly on the knee, his good knee at least. "You look like a cornered cat or something. Lighten up a bit, baby brother. Sorry 'bout the phone, but I wanted to catch up, and it's better without interruptions. That boyfriend of yours is really on your case all the time, isn't he? Or should I say on your back?"

Gabriel felt a stab of anger beneath the fear, because hadn't he just gone through this whole stupid conversation with John?

"He's not my bloody boyfriend, Richard," he snapped, surprised by the strength of his voice.

His brother rolled his eyes.

"What, do you like 'partner'? 'Life-mate'? How about just the bloke you're fucking?"

Gabriel struggled with himself, trying to get a hold of his anger.

"You don't get it, do you?" he hissed. "I'm not bloody sleeping with Sherlock and I never was. He's my _boss._"

He bit down hard on any mention of Sandra, on the impulse to throw out the fact that he was dating a woman, because bringing her into this was too dangerous. Richard was likely to accuse him of lying anyway, and he did not need to know about her. They'd gone out three times so far, and she was astonishing patient with a man on crutches recovering from surgery, not to mention brilliant, funny, and beautiful.

He pushed thoughts of her away, keeping them out of his face, away from the surface of his mind. He doubted Richard was sharp enough to pick up on them unspoken, but it was far better safe than sorry.

He was already feeling quite sorry.

"That's some working relationship you have, then," Richard commented with a leer.

Gabriel lost his patience.

"Is that what you want, Richard? To come and taunt me about who you think I'm sleeping with? Or maybe you just want to beat me up again? I've already been shot, so why don't you just go ahead? I mean, what's stopping you? Certainly me being your baby brother didn't hold you back last time! Wasn't enough for you? Thought you'd give it a go on your own this time? First, I was eighteen. Now, I'm already injured. Really tough, aren't you?"

Richard leaned toward him again and Gabriel forced himself to stay put, but couldn't stop himself from paling – he could feel it – or from swallowing hard.

"Listen to you, with that snooty accent dropping away when you're scared. Scared, Gabe? Of me? My little brother, with his fancy job and fancy accent and fancy suit, is scared. Always thought you were so much smarter than me, than the rest of us, didn't you? Where's that gotten you?"

"I _am_ so much smarter than you, Richard. I've always been smarter than you. Is that what this is about? Is that it, really? Do you not actually care if I'm sleeping with other men? Is that just an excuse because homophobia finds you more support with other bigots than does beating up your more intelligent brother? And where has it gotten me? How much do you make, Richard, with your criminal record that shows you assaulted a police officer? Where do you live? At home with Mum? With one of your other low-life mates? Sleeping on someone's couch? Where do you work? Flipping burgers or frying chips for teenagers?"

"You don't know, do you?" Richard asked, grinning again.

"No, I don't know," Gabriel snapped. "I don't care."

"Oh, I think you do. I think you always will. I think you sometimes still check over your shoulder or wake up sweating from a nightmare because it doesn't _matter_ how much smarter you are, not in the end. You're still trapped right here, can't run, no phone, no gun, no 'boss' to save your ass, right?"

"No," Gabriel said coolly, lying, cursing silently because Richard was right – not about the checking over his shoulder, but about the nightmares. They were infrequent, maybe once or twice a year, but they always left him awake for the rest of the night, lights on, watching crap telly so as not to listen to his own thoughts.

"Yeah, right," Richard said. "Smarter than me, who cares? I'll always be there."

He tapped Gabriel's forehead and the younger man jerked away. Richard laughed.

"See? That's what I mean."

"And this is what you want? To taunt me because you think I'm scared of you?"

"Nah, I don't think that, you _are_, Gabe. But no," he shrugged. "Really, I did want to see you. See what you look like brought down a peg, yeah? Marian's been so worried about you, you know."

_Godammit_, Gabriel thought. Had Marian told him? No, likely Marian had told their mother, and their mother had told him.

_Bloody brilliant, thanks, Mum. You were always so willing to ignore his obvious sadistic streak, weren't you?_

"Heard they found the guy who shot you, too. American bloke, right?"

"That's right," Gabriel said stiffly.

"Heard you shot him back, got him in the shoulder. Fancy job like you have, and as if I don't know what you do, Gabe, I thought you'd be a better shot."

"He'd already shot me in the knee."

Richard shrugged, as if to say this didn't matter. Anger flared again, mixed with guilt, because he wished he had managed to shoot Williams properly, to save Martha Hudson all the time forced out of her flat, to save himself and Sherlock the trouble of looking for him, to save them the confrontation with Jim Moriarty that was surely not over, because Jim wasn't one to let things go when he thought they could continue to amuse him.

"Bobbies give you trouble?"

"Yes, some," Gabriel said through gritted teeth. "But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? At least they've decided I was justified."

"And they'll keep a sharp eye on you, eh, baby brother? You and your so-called boss, yeah? Because I doubt they're stupid. You and that Sherlock Holmes, think you're so bloody clever, like no one knows what you do."

_We're not clever, I'm smart and he's a genius_, Gabriel thought. And it didn't matter what anyone knew. It didn't matter what that Lestrade or Sergeant Donovan suspected. It mattered what they could prove, which was nothing, because, when it came down to it, he and Sherlock were more intelligent and careful and thoughtful in their planning than probably the entire London police force put together.

And yet, here he was, accidentally trapped by his brother in a cab.

All of that training Sherlock had given him, honing a natural talent for observation, wasted. Because he'd felt safe in London's busy streets in broad daylight.

_At least I hope he finds my body_, Gabriel thought. _At least that._

He drew another deep breath, aware of how shaky it was.

"Gonna be a trial?" Richard asked.

Gabriel curled his other hand into a fist, pressing both of them against his thighs.

"I believe he's wanted in the United States on capital charges. There's talk of extradition. That means they'll ship him back there to be tried for his crimes there rather than do so here."

"Ah, the big words," Richard commented. "Yeah, I know what that means, Gabe. I was in gaol."

"I know," Gabriel said coolly. "Should I point out to you that I've never been?"

"Hah!" Richard barked. "Pretty boy like you, you wouldn't last a day. You have no idea, do you?"

"No," Gabriel snapped. "And you're lucky it wasn't longer, that I didn't put you there."

"What's this? Brotherly love? From you? I don't think so. You were too chicken to do anything about it, weren't you? Except have your boyfriend – sorry, boss, threaten me and kill Mikey. Hiding behind that posh bastard, eh? Figures."

He grinned again at Gabriel.

"And now? Bet you're thinking if you had a gun, you'd just shoot me. Bam! Right between the eyes. Well, you could probably do it. For all that you had shitty aim with that Williams bloke. Like you said, you'd already been shot. Maybe that does count for something."

Gabriel bit down on the reply that he'd do it and do it happily.

He was aware of the car slowing and stopping. Richard glanced up, then nodded.

"Good, here we are."

_Oh, God, _Gabriel thought, looking out the window. They were in the docks somewhere, on some deserted, dead-end back street. Close enough to the water for someone of Richard's size to haul a body down there, even if that body was another full grown man. And he wasn't alone, there was the driver, too.

"Out you get, Gabe."

"No."

"I said out," his brother snapped. "This is your stop. Give me your wallet."

"What?"

"Your wallet, you idiot, give me your wallet. Now!"

Gabriel did so, reluctantly, wondering what would happen if he refused, since he doubted he was walking away from this anyhow. Did Richard think this would mean he wouldn't be identifiable?

"Good, now out."

The locks clicked open and Gabriel drew a deep breath, pushing the door open. If he was going, he wasn't going scared and sitting down.

"Sherlock will kill you for this," he said quietly.

"What? For a chat with my little brother? It's a bit much, isn't it?"

"If you kill me, he will hunt you down."

Richard looked startled, then laughed.

"Kill you, Gabe? Lord, no, can you imagine how weepy Mum would be? Plus, where's the fun in that? I just wanted to see you. And now I have. Get out."

Gabriel stared at his brother a moment, then swallowed hard, not bothering to point out that he couldn't walk without his crutches, because he was damned if he was going to say this to Richard, to admit the weakness Richard already knew about. He scanned the area quickly – no one around, no other vehicles except a parked and empty construction van that looked like it had been there at least overnight. No payphones, certainly no other cabs.

He got out, trying to keep as much weight on his left leg as possible, but it didn't stop the whiteness that rushed into the edges of his vision, followed by sharp, burning pain when he put weight on his right leg.

He kept himself up by sheer effort, turning back to the cab. Richard had shifted over to where Gabriel had been sitting and had grasped the door by the inner handle. He looked up at Gabe, his features somewhat blurry now, and grinned. Gabriel fought for focus, keeping his expression hard, angry.

"Good to see you again, puppy," Richard said. "Take care of yourself."

Before Gabriel could even react to the words, Richard snapped the door shut and the car pulled off. He barely saw it go, reeling from his brother's revelation and from the pain that shot up his leg when he tried to move, tried to hold his balance entirely on his left side.

He needed to sit, or lean on something. He needed his phone, which he didn't have, his crutches, which he also didn't have. With a gasp through clenched teeth, Gabriel made himself look around and hobbled over to the pavement, not quite able to stop the tears that streaked his cheeks in response to the pain in each step. Growling at himself, he leaned up against a nearby signpost and gasped again, holding onto it and doubling over, taking the weight off his right leg.

_Godammit,_ he thought. _Now what?_

Yes, Sherlock would eventually realize he was missing, but what would lead them down here? His phone had been off, so the GPS signal was useless, and he was carrying nothing else that would alert them as to where he was.

In a city so large, Richard – no, Jim Moriarty – had found somewhere to abandon Gabriel where he could not readily be seen or found.

He realized abruptly that someone was shouting his name. That there had been the sound of a second car, so typical that his brain hadn't even processed it, distracted as it was by the pain and the panic, and now someone was running toward him, footsteps on the asphalt, and Gabriel managed to look up.

"Gabriel! What the hell?"

"John?" Gabriel asked in shock.

The doctor's arms wrapped around him, taking the weight his crutches should have been bearing, and Gabriel nearly stumbled, John managing to keep them upright somehow.

"What?" Gabriel managed.

"Saw someone get into your cab and I followed," John said in a rush. "I'll explain later. Come on."

He shifted, waving at the cab, which edged toward them slowly.

"You all right?"

"Yes. No. That was my brother, John."

John paused a moment, giving him a shocked look, then shook his head.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You're all right. Come on. I'll get you home. You're all right, okay? Listen to me now. I'll get you home, I'll call Sherlock, let him know what happened."

"No!" Gabriel said forcefully. "No. Not home, your flat. And don't call him."

"You –"

"_Don't_ call him, John. Let me take care of this, all right? Let me take care of this. I'm still your patient, am I not? Confidentiality."

John gave him a hard look that Gabriel returned as best he could.

"I'll get you back to my flat and then we'll talk about this," John said.

_No talking_, Gabriel thought, but didn't argue. John shuffled him into the waiting cab and Gabriel tried not to collapse entirely into the seat, taking the weight off his right leg. John went round the other side and climbed in.

"221B Baker Street, please," he said and Gabriel leaned forward, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, staying that way during the whole ride back.


	18. Chapter 18

Mrs. Hudson wasn't at home when they arrived for which Gabriel was grateful. It was just possible he might convince John not to call Sherlock, but he knew there would be no derailing Martha Hudson and if she saw John manhandling him due to the lack of crutches, she would know something was amiss.

It was hard enough to get up the stairs as it was, even with John underneath his right shoulder. They were steeps steps and he'd had troubles with them on his crutches earlier in the day when he'd been properly rested and not trying to keep himself from shaking from what felt like the end of a panic attack and an adrenaline spike.

John got him out of his coat and onto the couch and Gabriel swung his injured leg up, hissing and wincing, settling it onto a pillow and then lying down, staring at the ceiling. He could feel his heart hammering, the pulses in his neck pounding almost painfully, and closed his eyes, scrubbing his face with his hands.

"You have to let me call Sherlock."

"No," Gabriel said forcefully, snapping his eyes back open. "No. Let me deal with this, all right? Let me take care of it. _I_ will talk to him. Just – not right now. Not now."

John was standing over him, arms folded, that captain's glare on his face. Gabriel returned it with a glare of his own; John was not the only one practiced in piercing looks.

"What did he do to you?" the doctor demanded.

"Nothing," Gabriel said and saw the disbelief in John's face. "He didn't touch me. Took my crutches. And my phone and wallet."

Suddenly, so suddenly it hurt, he felt drained and exhausted, the fight going out of his muscles and he closed his eyes again, wanting to curl up on his side but the cast made that difficult and uncomfortable at the best of times, let alone on a couch. Pain flared again just below his knee, sharp and stabbing. Gabriel bit his lip but couldn't suppress the groan. He tightened one hand into a fist, trying to displace the pain, and focused on his breathing.

"Godammit," John muttered. "Wait there." As if Gabriel were going anywhere.

He set his jaw, fighting the instinct to shift because it would make no difference. Another jolt shot through his nerves and he winced, swallowing a moan. He was not going to give Richard the satisfaction.

"Open your eyes," John said, coming back a few minutes later, sitting down on his coffee table, a glass of water in one hand and several pills in the palm of his other. Gabriel recognized his painkillers among them, but not everything.

"What is it?" he asked, managing to prop himself on his left arm.

"Your painkillers and some benzos. Sedatives. And muscles relaxants. It's a lot to take a once, but you're going to do it because I say so. If you won't listen to me about calling Sherlock, you'll listen to me about this, because I'm still the doctor in the room. You need to sleep and I need to look at your leg again. You'll have to go for more x-rays, too. Walking on it – even that short a distance – I don't know, Gabriel. I'll need to make sure none of the breaks have been affected."

Gabriel only nodded, too tired to do anything else, and gauged by the expression on John's face that the doctor would brook no arguments.

He took the glass and all of the pills John gave him, downing them quickly. John watched him with a sharp eye, taking the glass back when he was done and refilling it in the kitchen. He put it back down on the coffee table next to Gabriel and disappeared a moment, fetching something from his bedroom.

It was an afghan, one of Mrs. Hudson's creations.

"Housewarming present from my landlady," John said, covering Gabriel, taking care with his right leg. He gave the younger man a pillow to put under his head and Gabriel closed his eyes.

_An afghan for the Afghanistan vet?_ he wondered, then thought: _Lord, that was stupid._

He doubted it was the drugs – not so soon – but rather the remnant fear that he couldn't shake, the unsteadiness in his body that was mirrored in his brain, the pointless giddiness that was entirely inappropriate. Giddy and exhausted. It was an unpleasant and uncomfortable sensation.

"Is there anyone I can call for you?" John asked.

_Marian? My mother? Oh yes, brilliant,_ Gabriel thought. He shook his head tiredly.

"No."

"Then go to sleep. I'm going to check your leg."

Gabriel managed a nod and felt the blanket being very carefully folded aside and his trouser leg being tugged up so John could unstrap the blasted cast before he fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

><p>He awoke to a moment's disorientation about why he felt apprehension, where he was, and what time it was. There was something warm covering him and he was on a couch but not his own and it took a moment to reality to reassert itself. When it did, Gabriel wished it hadn't.<p>

_Not a nightmare, then_, he thought, repressing a shudder. He felt vague, like he was floating or still dreaming, and remembered something about sedatives and painkillers that John had given him.

He could hear John talking in the background.

"Yes, he's here. No, it's fine, I turned his phone off. He came to see me about his leg and needed some sleep."

Gabriel managed to push himself up a bit and saw John standing at archway of the short hallway that led to his bedroom, eyes unfocused in the way that indicated he was talking to someone he couldn't see. He had his phone to his ear and was nodding. When he heard Gabriel shift, he glanced up, expression a bit dark.

"No, he's still asleep," John lied. "Don't worry about it, Mister Holmes, this is normal. You hired me as your doctor, so trust my medical advice, please. I'll tell him you called when he wakes up."

Gabriel lay back down, wondering if John knew how adept Sherlock was at seeing through lies and how much effort John had put into it anyway. He'd wanted to tell Sherlock, after all. It would be a simple matter to make it sound enough like a lie that Sherlock would get suspicious and come around to John's flat.

But was that how John Watson thought? Gabriel didn't know and it was too much effort to try and figure it out.

He frowned and looked up again. There was a new set of crutches resting against the arm of the sofa at the other end.

"Went and got them while you were sleeping," John said, coming round the sofa and sitting on his coffee table again. He was moving much easier without his cane, Gabriel noted, and felt a twinge of envy at that. "I can't do anything about your wallet or phone though."

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked.

"About three hours."

"I feel like crap."

"You should," John agreed. "You're going for another set of x-rays tomorrow. I'd send you today if I thought I had any hope of you listening to me."

Gabriel just nodded, looking at the ceiling.

"Thank you," he said, realizing he hadn't said it, realizing also that it was inadequate.

"You're welcome."

He raised his head again to meet John's gaze.

"How did you know?"

"I saw someone get into your cab and saw you react with surprise. I was watching just to make sure you made it. You're still my patient, after all. I didn't know it was your brother, but I thought it was better not to take the chance. Glad I didn't."

"Me, too."

John kept watching him and Gabriel sighed.

"What did he want?" he asked, nodding at John's phone.

"To tell you that the second disc of your Doctor Who series one is scratched and not working and that you should go round to the shops and buy yourself a new set and one for him while you're at it."

Gabriel stared at him, then lowered his head again, scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

"Yeah, that sounds about right for Sherlock," he sighed. He paused, silent a moment, and heard John shift and the click of something being picked up off of the wooden table. Gabriel opened his eyes when a cool glass was pressed into his hands.

"Drink that," John ordered.

He shifted himself onto one forearm and drained the glass before lying down again.

"Can I borrow your phone? I need to make a call."

John sighed.

"I suppose it's too much to ask that you'd be calling Sherlock?"

Gabriel nodded once.

"Do I want to know who?" John asked.

"No," Gabriel replied flatly. "I'd do it from my own phone, but I don't have it."

John hesitated a moment, then gave an abrupt sigh.

"Fine," he said. "I'll be upstairs. Shout out when you're done. I don't think I want to hear this."

"You don't," Gabriel confirmed.

John passed off his phone with a glare that Gabriel ignored, less out of desire than necessity – he was still too tired to be bothered by it. He felt as though he'd been run over by a truck and thought that would be almost preferable to knowing Richard working for Jim Moriarty.

Well.

Not for long.

John went to the foot of the stairs that went up to the spare bedroom, hesitated, glancing back, then shook his head and climbed them slowly. Gabriel closed his eyes, waiting until he heard the click of the door above and the sound of the old floorboards creaking in response to John's steps. Then he opened his eyes again and rang Cheryl's number.

"Hello?" she said on the other end.

"Cheryl, it's Gabe."

"Gabe? Oh, hello. Didn't recognize the number. Did you get a new one?"

"No. I'm calling from Doctor Watson's phone. I – lost mine."

"That's a pain," she commiserated. "You all right? You sound tired."

"I need you to do something for me."

There was a pause on the other end, not one of puzzlement, one of realization. He heard her shift slightly, a minute and passing change in her breathing.

"What is it?" she asked carefully.

Gabriel hesitated, then felt a flash of anger. Even now, he was hesitating?

"Do you remember once you told me that most of the time, when you're on a job, it's just professional, but sometimes you see your father in the assignments and it's personal?"

"Yes," Cheryl replied, her tone still careful. "I remember."

"I need you to do something personal for me."

There was another pause, this one slightly longer.

"What did he do, Gabe?"

He was silent for a moment longer, tightening his grip on his phone, closing his eyes. Then he told her what had happened in the dummy cab, speaking slowly to keep his voice even. It felt oddly distant and somehow too present at the same time and he wondered how much of that was the sedatives. Would John give him more to take home? He had a feeling he'd need them, tonight and the next several nights.

He remembered the nightmares and wished he hadn't thought of that, wished he hadn't realized what he was in for.

"How much time do you need?" he asked when he'd finished relaying his visit from Richard.

"Not much," she replied. "Shouldn't be too hard to find him, not if he's working for Jim and he's in the city. Not if he's made himself known to you. I can do this quickly, Gabe. By tomorrow morning."

He was surprised, then grateful, a shock of relief coursing through him, making his leg hurt.

"But I'm going to have to tell Sherlock."

Gabriel nodded even though she couldn't see him.

"Yeah. I know."

"It would be better if you did."

"I know that, too."

Cheryl sighed.

"He still has my things, Cheryl. I'd appreciate if you could get them back."

"If he has them with him, I will," she promised.

"Can –" Gabriel started, then stopped, swallowing hard. "Cheryl, make it _hurt_. Make sure he _knows._"

He surprised himself at the venom in his voice but didn't retract his words, setting his jaw and trying to stay calm.

"If that's what you want, Gabe."

"It is," he replied with hard certainty.

"All right. I'll wait to tell Sherlock until it's done. You should really talk to him, Gabe. He'll want to know. And he'll want to know from you."

"Yes," Gabriel said, not agreeing to do so, but agreeing that he should. The thought of talking to anyone else about it right now was exhausting – he could handle Cheryl because she was simply going to take care of the problem.

Sherlock, on the other hand, would be livid. He'd want explanations and details and would give assurances and Gabriel wanted to contend with none of these things. He wanted to sleep again, to forget this had happened until he could wake up the next morning with Richard out of his life completely and permanently.

He didn't want sympathy, he didn't want to listen to Sherlock rant, he just wanted to feel safe. Cheryl could do that. Gabriel supposed Sherlock would have shot Richard had Gabriel asked, but Richard would see it coming.

_Hiding behind that posh bastard_, he thought, Richard's voice echoing in his memory, and he shuddered.

"Make sure no one ever finds him. Ever."

"Right," she sighed. "All right. I'll come let you know when it's done. Will you be at home?"

"I will."

"Take care, Gabe."

"And you."

He rung off and stared at the phone, then called for car to come pick him up. When he let John know it was safe to come back downstairs, the doctor argued with him about leaving, but Gabriel pointed out he had crutches and could move around now without possibility of hurting his leg again. John kept at it until Gabriel just got up, put on his coat and made for the stairwell, then the doctor caught up with him a minute later, handing him an order for x-rays. Gabriel thanked him and pocketed it and John let him out. The car was already waiting, having made it sometime while they were arguing, and the driver got out, opening the door for him.

Gabriel got in and watched John watching him darkly from the doorway. He wondered if the doctor would go back on his word and call Sherlock. He looked angry enough to do so. Where would he lay his loyalties? To his patient or to his boss? Hard to tell, with John.

Well, it would save Gabriel the trouble of Sherlock finding out from Cheryl if John told him. But it might also mean Sherlock would have warning and might try and stop her. Gabriel couldn't find the strength to worry about it too much and went home, letting himself into his empty flat. He reset the security system and crawled into bed, not bothering with changing, taking enough time only to prop his bad leg on a pillow, and fell asleep again.


	19. Chapter 19

Gabriel was awoken by Cheryl a little after five in the morning and suppressed a groan at the fact that his mouth and eyes felt like sandpaper from the dehydration. He'd been asleep nearly twelve hours and it still didn't feel like enough. His leg throbbed against his cast right below the knee and he sat up, ignoring a wave of dizziness, and unstrapped the cast carefully, not really surprised to see that his leg was more swollen now than it had been yesterday. That was apparent even in the semi-darkness of the room. It was still dark on an early February morning, but Cheryl had flicked the hall light on, and some faint illumination spilled in through the doorway.

Cheryl settled cross-legged on his bed, uninvited but not unwelcome.

"Done," she said simply.

"Any problems?" he asked, looking up at her if only to move his gaze away from his leg. It seemed to hurt more if he looked at it.

"Not as such," she replied, then passed something to him, pressing his wallet and phone into his hands. "He had these on him. Not your crutches though."

"Doctor Watson got me another pair."

"He seems decent."

"Yeah," Gabriel said, lying back down, rubbing his eyes. "He does." Judging by the fact that Sherlock had not stormed in and woken him up yet, John hadn't said anything to his boss. Maybe he was respecting Gabriel's doctor-patient confidentiality, maybe he was just giving Gabriel the chance to be the one who told Sherlock.

Cheryl wasn't going to give him that choice.

He preferred it that way. He thought he could deal with the confrontation, but not the delivery.

"Did he know?" Gabriel asked.

"Oh, he knew," Cheryl replied.

Gabriel sighed, staring at the ceiling. He felt oddly guilty, not about Richard's death but about Cheryl's part in it. He knew how she felt about her job – that it was just a job. But he'd involved her in something personal.

She leaned forward in the semi-darkness of the room, elbows on her knees, curly hair spilling over her shoulders. She must have showered, he thought, then realized of course she had. Cleaned up meticulously, disposed of all of her clothing. It wasn't clothing she wore on a daily basis anyway.

She'd commented once that with the right clothes, the right stance, in the right lack of light, a woman of average height turned into "he was a short man, about five-six, I think, about thirty, I don't know, I couldn't see his face."

"Your leg looks bad," she said.

"Yes," Gabriel agreed.

"Is that because he made you walk on it?"

He nodded.

"Gabe, even if you hadn't asked me to do this, I'd have gone after him on my own as soon I'd found out. My dad was my second job, and I didn't get paid for that. But it's easier to breathe, easier to sleep. That's more than payment. No one ever found him, either."

She was silent for a moment.

"Need anything?"

"Water," he replied.

Cheryl nodded and slid off of his bed, disappearing for a few minutes then coming back with a tall glass of cool water and some biscuits for good measure.

"How long do you want before I tell Sherlock?"

Gabriel sighed.

"Forever?" he suggested.

"I can't. I can't not let him know I've been working, especially since your brother was working for Jim."

Gabriel nodded, sighing, then drained the glass in one go.

"An hour," he said. Cheryl regarded him silently for a moment.

"All right," she agreed. She bent over and kissed his forehead and he squeezed her hand. Then she left, closing his bedroom door behind her with a quiet click.

* * *

><p>There were almost infinite ways to kill a person, or so it seemed with a solid grasp of both anatomy and history. She had degrees in both, the first earned on her own, the second paid for by an "anonymous donor" – who was Sherlock, of course. She may not be a genius like him, but there was a wide range of intelligent people who did not quite meet his level and Cheryl fell comfortably among them.<p>

Poison was an old favourite, as well as simple stabbing, which was generally quicker and slightly less messy, depending on the poison and if one had a high tolerance for seeing blood or not. Personally, she considered that issues with blood were an indication that her profession should be avoided, because turning a person into a corpse was bound to result in some blood at least occasionally.

Poisoning had the effect of being dramatic, but it was also complicated and required getting particularly close to the target, potentially even earning his trust. It could also be fairly easily identified and often, in these days of controlled substances, traced. The field of forensics advanced in leaps and bounds and she advanced in response, staying one step ahead, aware the police were dogging her steps and could catch her if she but slowed down.

As a result she read and studied and took the occasional university course in chemistry, biology, criminology, anything that seemed relevant. When all it took was a strand of her hair or partial fingerprint to pin her to a body, it was unreasonable to think that great care and attention was not required. Part of that meant keeping herself informed.

Any idiot with a gun could shoot another idiot.

It took skill and subtlety to be an assassin.

Oh, any number of hired killers called themselves such, putting on airs to make themselves feel smug and superior. They were hit men. Thugs. Nothing more. They killed out of desperate fear to stop someone, usually to prevent victims or witnesses from going to the police. It was reactive. Responsive. Untidy.

Assassination was different. It smoothed the passage of certain people to power, cleared the way of unnecessary entanglements. It was calculated and deliberate and she had never once felt afraid while working. Cautious about her own safety, yes. Concerned she might be caught, of course. But not afraid of the targets themselves. They were obstacles to be removed and nothing more.

Sometimes those obstacles stood in the way of certain people living their lives properly. Then it was personal as well as professional.

Her father had been one of those.

So was Richard Mitchell.

Yes, she considered, watching him bleed out from a bullet wound to the abdomen, from which no bullet would ever be recovered even if his body was – although it would not be. She'd ensured this by strapping on a pair of latex gloves, removing it while covering his mouth with her other hand to stifle the screams.

A degree in anatomy had been a useful decision, indeed. She built on natural skill, and Sherlock had seen that when he hired her and had taught her more. The art of disguise was, as he said, hiding in plain sight. That had not been so difficult to master. People saw what they wanted to see, what they expected to see.

They did not expect to see a woman gunning down someone. It was amazing, really, what eyewitnesses could be led to believe they'd seen.

"Your brother sent me," she said after removing the bullet, ensuring she got the message through before he was not lucid enough to understand it. "Me, do you understand? Not the man you called 'that posh bastard'. Is that some kind of insult? Gabe is worth more than you could ever even hope to be. Not ten of you. Not a hundred. There is no number. Because a man who beats his family is worthless. There are words for what you are, but none of them quite do it justice, do they? Nothing. I think nothing – if you really think about the definition – sums it up quite nicely. And it's true. Soon, you'll be nothing. And Gabe won't have you here anymore," she jabbed his forehead, the way Gabriel had told her Richard had jabbed his. "You'll be an unpleasant memory at best, at very best."

He stared at her, wild eyed with pain and desperation, his lips moving in a silent plea for her to help him.

"No. You had your chances. I'm helping Gabe. He's the one who's earned it."

Cheryl fell silent then and watched him, waiting for him to die. It took a good ten minutes, replete with a lot of soft moaning and some unpleasantly damp gurgling sounds and a good deal of blood – no one was ever at their best with an abdominal wound. But no one would hear them, either, or find traces of his blood. She knew how to pick her locations, and knew how to clean up properly, the way a forensics cleaning service would. She knew the tools the police used for crime scene identification and investigation.

She also suddenly knew she wasn't alone with what was now Richard Mitchell's corpse.

She couldn't have been followed. She'd ensured that.

And since she couldn't have been, there were only three possibilities for who it could be. She dismissed it being Sherlock out of hand – he would have not held his silence, not in this. She dismissed Jim Moriarty next, because he would have waited until Mitchell had died but then would have done something obnoxious like start clapping or commented on her words to the dying man.

"I know you're there, you may as well step out," she said over her shoulder, checking the safety on her weapon and stowing it in its holster at her waist. Cheryl shifted her position slightly as a tall figure detached himself from the shadows.

"Would you like some help?" Sebastian asked.

Cheryl regarded him coolly for a moment.

"I have the evening off," he said. Code for "Jim didn't send me".

"Won't he be bothered when he finds out?" she asked. Both that Mitchell was dead and that Sebastian was here without Jim's knowledge.

"For that?" Sebastian sniffed, glancing at the body. "Hardly. There are thousands more like him in London. If you'd shot me, yes."

Cheryl just raised an eyebrow; her chances of shooting him without him shooting her either first or in return were slim to nothing.

Besides, she had reservations about shooting another assassin. Some decency should be maintained. There were so few people who understood. It wasn't as though they had a professional assassins association.

She had tried to explain to Sherlock about the Assassin's Guild in the Discworld series, once, and he had favoured her with that blank stare that was so particular to him when he didn't understand a reference. Cheryl had let it go – probably best he didn't get wrapped up in that, given how fanatic he was about Doctor Who.

She hesitated on Sebastian's offer, though, because who knew with Jim? Sebastian did know him better than anyone, yes. But that was like saying that an astronomer knew the surface of the Moon better than everyone else. It still didn't mean much. It was entirely possible Jim wouldn't care, but it was equally possible that this would set him off.

Cheryl knew what Jim set off looked like. She'd seen a trail of bodies before, one that she knew led back to him, but only because she knew the signs. Unlike her, unlike Sebastian, Jim loved carnage.

And she was strong enough despite her average stature to shoulder Mitchell's literal dead weight on her own. She kept herself in good shape. She could even lift someone Sherlock's height and move him if need be.

Cheryl knew this because he'd insisted she prove to him that she could during her rather unique job interview.

Most people, when pretending to be unconscious or dead, inadvertently helped when someone else was trying to move or manipulate them.

Not Sherlock.

She'd carried all six feet and two inches of him without comment and with barely a grunt standing under his weight, and he'd been perfectly dead weight, utterly unresponsive.

Yes, definitely an odd job interview.

Still, she considered, Sebastian was there.

"Right," she decided. At least it would get this over with more quickly.

Because this was not the part she dreaded. Compared to what was to come, this was the easy part. Yes, Mitchell had moaned and pled and gurgled and bled, but he had also died. It had been over quickly, at least for her. Probably not for him, she conceded.

The worst part would be telling Sherlock.

Sebastian's help would get her through the disposal in short order. Cheryl wondered if this was actually worse, but she'd have to face the music and so would Gabriel.

She didn't regret her decision, though. She hoped Gabriel never had cause to, either.

"Grab the tarp and let's go," she said, getting back down to business.

* * *

><p>"Go easy on him!" Cheryl yelled after Sherlock's retreating form. "He's still hurt!"<p>

His only response was to slam the door to his flat behind him so hard that she felt the vibration through the floor.

"Blast," she muttered to herself with an inward sigh. Go after him or not?

Probably best not to. Sherlock was less likely to back down if he had an audience and he never rowed with Gabriel anyway, so it would likely be over quickly. When he lost his temper, it usually burnt bright and fast, like a flare.

Still, she made a mental note to keep her ears open for gunshots and told security to alert her if there were any reports of disturbances from other tenants on the fourth floor. She would have preferred to have gone straight to bed, but it was probably best to wait until this was over, just to be on the safe side.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N:** will this story ever end? I don't even know. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Gabriel had enough time to shower – which took significantly longer than normal with an injured leg – change and even fix himself some toast, trying to ignore the burning sensation just below his knee, hoping it didn't mean the breaks had been reinjured.<p>

He settled himself on his couch and waited, dozing without meaning to, and was startled by the sound of his flat door banging open. He jerked, then winced at the flare of pain this caused in his leg, and was still trying to readjust his position and avoid the temptation to take off his cast and rub the aggravated muscles when Sherlock stormed in, grey eyes blazing, expression incensed. Gabriel tried to gauge how much Cheryl had told him before he'd left her to come down here, but he was too tired and Sherlock was not giving up any information past being angry.

"Would you care to tell me what you were thinking?" Sherlock demanded. "No, forget that, it's clear that you _weren't_ thinking! Astonishing how you've managed thus far if you're so willing to just suspend your ability to actually consider anything properly!"

Gabriel opened his mouth to retort, a flash of anger flaring in him as well, but Sherlock cut him off.

"No, shut up, don't interrupt me! What in the world was going through your mind, Gabriel? Have you gone mad? Is it the medication? I'd prefer the latter to the former because I can actually have something done about that! Do you _know_ what kind of mess you've created? No, of course you don't, you're quite bright but apparently you see no desire to exercise that intelligence!"

Gabriel stiffened, returning Sherlock's glare with one of his own.

"And don't look at me that way! Cheryl's work is not open to personal grudges! You know that! This is not some means to address past grievances, Gabriel, and if you'd had some issues with your brother, you should have –"

"You don't know," Gabriel said quietly, cutting him off. "You didn't give her a chance to tell you, did you?"

"What? Tell me what?"

Gabriel sighed and set his jaw. He had no desire to repeat the story for a third time, not so soon, but there was no way around it. He shifted on his couch a little, tired of sitting, tired of being pinned down like this.

"Maybe if you bloody listened before bloody losing your temper, you could have avoided storming in here and yelling like I was some stupid teenager who broke the rules or something!" he shot back, feeling his own temper, worn by the pain in his leg and the events from the day before, snap. "But oh no, you've got to shout because you _think_ you understand what I did! You barely gave Cheryl a chance to explain, did you?"

"Explain?" Sherlock shot back, throwing his arms wide. "Explain! Explain what, Gabriel? You had your brother killed!"

"Yes! Yes, I did, and it was about goddamn bloody time!" Gabriel threw back. "Seven bloody years we've been sitting on our hands about this and I've been trying to ignore it and hope he'll just go away, but he won't! No, instead, what he did was fake a cab to round me up and snatched me right off the street! Same thing as last time, only yes, now he didn't beat me up, just terrorized me, stole my crutches, phone and wallet and dumped me on a deserted street down in the docks, made me walk on my bloody leg and if John Watson hadn't had the sense to follow the cab, I'd probably still be down there, freezing to death if I were lucky!"

Sherlock started, then stared at him.

"What?" he demanded.

"You heard me!" Gabriel retorted. "He got me, Sherlock, because I went to have John look at my leg without you hovering in the background and thought it would be a brilliant idea to take a cab instead of one of the cars. You want to yell at me about being stupid? Fine! I am! Don't you think I already feel like a right idiot? Do you _know_ how much smarter I am than Richard? Yes, of course you do! And he managed to trap me in a cab without me even realizing I'd been followed!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed further.

"What did he do to you?"

"What, besides making me walk on my injured leg like I said? Do you have any idea how much that hurt? It still hurts! John needs me to go for more bloody x-rays to make sure it's not re-broken or whatever the medical term is!"

"What else?" Sherlock snapped.

"He didn't touch me," Gabriel sighed. "He only wanted to see how I was doing, as he said. In other words, to taunt me with the fact that I was trapped and couldn't walk and was completely at his mercy, such as it is. Again. No more, Sherlock. No more. Did you want me to go the rest of my life always watching over my shoulder to see if he's waiting for me? What was next, Sherlock? Do you think if he decided to assault me again that, right now, I'd survive it? Do you think I didn't spend that whole cab ride thinking I was going to die? I mean really die! Have you ever been caught in that situation? No, no, you haven't! So you can keep your stupid rant to yourself about Cheryl's services and the problems I've caused having him killed! I don't bloody care! No one's going to find him and maybe _I_ can actually sleep properly and not have to worry about what's next! Because what would be next? Beating, kidnapping, just another short step to killing me, isn't it?"

He paused, drawing in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Sherlock leaned over, bracing himself on his fingertips on the coffee table, and stared hard at Gabriel.

"Your mother will report him missing. The police will investigate."

"Good, let them," Gabriel snapped. "How are they going to pin this back on me? Did he tell anyone he was going to kidnap me in a cab? Unlikely. The only other person who knows who shouldn't – from Richard's point of view – is John Watson and given that he followed the cab to help me, I doubt he's going to offer up much in the way of testimony. As far as the police are concerned, I never saw him."

"Lestrade and Donovan are already on your case," Sherlock hissed.

"No, they are _not_. They have let that go because there is no evidence. I was the victim in a shooting, Sherlock. My brother is dead and his body won't be found. Cheryl's good at that kind of thing – I know you know that, because you hired her. And Richard's police records speak for themselves, don't they? Started with theft, at least on record, moved on to assaulting a police officer. Assaulted me, assaulted a cop. Donovan _knows_ what Richard did to me, even if never went through the police! She was there, she isn't stupid! He's _exactly_ the kind of man that would run into trouble and vanish! They'll probably barely even be bothered investigating! Who cares about the disappearance of one common criminal?"

"If you are about to say they have bigger fish to fry, you would be right!" Sherlock snapped. "That would be you and me!"

"And you can take care of all the stupid details that Cheryl hasn't! I know you can! That's your bloody job and you're a bloody genius! I'd lend a hand, I really would, but I'm hardly at my best right now, as you've pointed out before, and less so now than I was yesterday! There is _nothing_ to connect Richard to me or to Williams! I know that, because not only will you take care of it, but so will Jim. Oh yes, that's the other thing, isn't it? He was bloody well working for Jim, Sherlock!"

Sherlock glared hard at him.

"I know."

Gabriel stopped a moment, and stared.

"You – what? You _what? You know?_ What do you mean, you know? What the hell, Sherlock? You _knew?_ You knew! You _knew_ Jim had hired my brother and you didn't think to tell me? What the bloody hell were _you_ thinking? How long have you known?"

"Since two days after you were shot. I have more than made it my business since you were eighteen to keep a sharp eye on Richard and yes, he was picked up by Jim's organization here in London. Not directly by Jim himself, but likely on his orders."

Gabriel opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then opened it again.

"You knew."

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.

"Why the goddamn hell didn't you tell me?" he yelled, opening his eyes again, resisting the impulse to swing himself to standing. His muscles jarred, wanting to move, but he couldn't get up in a smooth motion and didn't want to stand on his crutches and yell. He felt less forceful sitting down, but that couldn't be avoided.

"For your own protection."

"My protection? My _protection_? Did you miss that whole bit about how Richard bloody kidnapped me in a fake bloody cab and left me alone in the bloody docks, Sherlock? Sorry, were you just not paying attention when I was talking? He could have killed me! I thought he was going to kill me! The whole time, I was praying you'd figure out something was wrong, because you're so good at that, and then I was just hoping you'd find my body after he'd shot me in the head and dumped me! How is that for my protection?"

"I could not predict you would dispense with the car service and take a cab. If you wanted to talk to Doctor Watson about your leg without me, you had only to say so."

"Oh, so now this is my fault, is that it?" Gabriel yelled. "Goddamn it, Sherlock! I needed to know that! You _know_ Jim likes to play with you! He probably just thought it would be funny to see what Richard would do? Well I might have figured that out if you'd told me that he was _bloody well working for Jim!_"

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but Gabriel cut him off.

"But no, no, I had to rely on the army doctor you just hired to save me. Because _he_ noticed something was amiss when someone else got into my cab. Because _he_ was bloody well paying attention! Because _he_ didn't just dismiss Richard! I can't – I can't bloody believe it! Get the hell out of my flat."

"What?"

"You heard me! Get the hell out of my flat! You come in here yelling because I sent Cheryl to deal with the problem, a problem that wouldn't have arisen in the first place if you'd just bloody told me that Jim had hired Richard! If you didn't keep thinking I couldn't deal with knowing what was going on! I'm twenty-five, Sherlock, _not_ eighteen! I am your second-in-command! How am I even supposed to consider being able to do my job properly if you're keeping things like this from me?"

"_I_ will decide what information you need," Sherlock hissed.

"I bloody well needed to know that!" Gabriel yelled. "Or did you maybe just want to see what would happen?"

Sherlock snarled but Gabriel ignored him, pulling up the leg of his cotton pyjama pants and unstrapping his cast.

"You see?" he said, gesturing at it. "You see? A minute standing and walking on it, maybe two at most. And I'm back to where I started. But who cares about that, right? You were just trying to protect me. Fine. But it didn't work. So I did it myself. Get out of my flat, Sherlock. Go yell at Cheryl or John Watson if you want to yell at someone."

Sherlock stared at his leg, then raised his blazing grey eyes in a cool glare.

"Out," Gabriel repeated.

"No," Sherlock replied in a cold voice.

"Out!"

They locked eyes for a long moment and Sherlock growled. Gabriel swallowed on some kind of retort, knowing that if he started speaking again, they'd just keep going round and round in circles, never resolving anything. He'd never been angrier in his life – not with Richard, not with his mother, and no small amount of that was a chilling fear that Sherlock had known about Richard and made the wrong choice. Despite the anger, Gabriel didn't think Sherlock was lying about wanting to protect him.

But he'd underestimated what Richard would do.

Or maybe what Jim would do?

"Fine," Sherlock finally snapped. He glared at Gabriel a moment longer and then stalked out, the door slamming behind him.

Gabriel sat rigidly for several long minutes, still not entirely convinced Sherlock was gone, then got himself up slowly on his crutches and locked the door and reset his security system. He returned to sit on his couch, dragging a blanket over him, then lying down after a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, wishing he was not so tired that he could not sleep.

* * *

><p>John had been half expecting the knock on the door all morning, even though the morning was not very old. Most of the previous day, too. He occasionally wondered what was taking so long, then told himself he should probably not be thinking about that. The less he knew, the better, and the less he thought about it, the less he felt he would know about it. Or at least suspect.<p>

He wasn't the most imaginative person in the world, perhaps, but he wasn't a dullard, either. When they'd been kids, he and Harry had played all sorts of fantastical make-believe games, creating entire worlds that built on themselves and spun off into adventures with dragons and knights and gladiators and astronauts and explorers, often all in the same settings and time frames. They had grown out of it, of course, but John didn't think that meant his imagination had gone stagnant.

He just didn't want to be using it to imagine what a man like Gabriel could do when he was feeling murderous. John recognized that expression on the younger man's face. He'd seen it enough times in Afghanistan, on both sides.

Eyes blazing, jaw set, all of those small facial muscles tensed, cheeks reddened, lips pursed into a thin white line.

Yep, pretty much how Holmes looked, standing at his door.

"Might as well come in," John said, stepping back. He'd been having a quiet cup of tea and reading the news. His habit of getting up early, developed from years in the army, was coming back to him now that he had his own place and an actual job again.

And he'd been so appreciating these peaceful mornings, too.

Holmes stalked in, his wool overcoat billowing gently behind him, and John shut the door, wondering if perhaps he should get his gun.

No, probably a bad idea.

Holmes spun, jabbing a gloved finger toward John. Did he always dress like this? Did he have any other clothing other than the suits and the fitted coat, the scarf and those leather gloves? Oddly, John found himself wondering if the man had loungewear, or pyjamas. Did he sleep? Probably not.

"Doctor Watson, correct me if I'm wrong, but I hired you as a personal physician. Yes?"

"Yes," John said flatly.

"And yesterday afternoon, you managed to rescue Gabriel from his older brother, who, believe me, is an entirely unpleasant waste of space and oxygen but – ha! Not anymore." John started at this, but Holmes ignored it. "This involved Gabriel re-injuring his leg and also having been in a car, alone, with his brother for – how long?"

"I think about twenty minutes," John said.

"Twenty minutes!" Holmes snarled. "And you did not find it necessary to inform me of this when I called you? He was sleeping and his phone was turned off, you said! Only his phone was stolen! _Was_ he sleeping, Doctor?"

"Yes," John replied, folding his arms. Well, it was mostly true. Gabriel had been asleep when Holmes had called. He hadn't been asleep for the entire duration of the conversation – about Doctor Who DVDs, of all the stupid things – but that didn't much matter.

Holmes stepped toward him, close enough to make John feel uneasy, his personal space invaded. But the doctor held his ground, refusing to back down, holding Holmes' stare with one of his own.

"You work for me," Holmes snapped. "I know this because not only did I hire you, I have recently paid you some fairly significant sums of money. Yet, when faced with circumstances that were _clearly_ vital for me to know, you refused to say anything. Why?"

John kept his gaze firm.

"Because Gabriel is my patient and asked me not to. Yes, you hired me, Mister Holmes, but you hired me to be Gabriel's doctor at the moment and I need to respect what he wants when it comes to his health."

"This is not about his leg!"

"There's more to health than physical injuries!" John snapped back. "He was terrified and needed some time to deal with that! And I thought it best you hear it from him."

Holmes stared at him and then spun, throwing his arms up in the air as if to entreat some unknown deity.

Then he stopped, dropping his hands, and strode over to the dresser that John was still working on, circling round behind it and staring at it.

John blinked in surprise – he had never seen anyone's train of thought derailed like that. Before now, he'd always thought of that expression rather rhetorically, but it was honestly like watching a train jump its tracks but miraculously landing on a new set while maintaining full speed.

"Are you restoring this?" Holmes asked, running one gloved hand over the sanded but unvarnished top.

"Um, yes," John said, trying to catch up. Holmes circled it again, crouching down, examining the woodworking on the drawers that John was patiently sanding by hand to ensure the details of the mouldings and edgings weren't lost.

"Astonishing," Holmes breathed. "Doctor, I must congratulate you on your skill. You have a exceptional ability to work with your hands on such delicate surfaces."

"Well, I am a surgeon," John said.

Holmes stood and spun and was striding back to John in one fluid movement, pointing a finger at him.

"Yes, yes, you are, and had you done your job as required by me, I may be right now avoiding the complications of Richard Mitchell's murder – not that I will have much cause to regret his death, believe me. But there are way and there are ways, Doctor, and having Gabriel send one of my assassins after his own brother to settle this admittedly steep score only confounds matters. Particularly since Richard was working from Jim Moriarty."

John stiffened at this revelation, unable to quell the response.

"Oh, good, something I know that someone else in this whole sordid mess doesn't. You needed to _tell_ me, Doctor."

"No, I didn't," John countered and saw the surprise in Holmes face, in his grey eyes. "Gabriel needed to tell you, Mister Holmes. He's your business partner – or whatever – and your friend. In fact, he gave me quite a nice little lecture yesterday, before the thing with his brother, about you and loyalty and friendship. So, maybe, instead of standing here and snipping at me, you should be there helping him out? I meant what I said about mental health. He could use some friends right now."

Holmes stared at him as though he'd begun speaking French – no, John decided, he probably spoke French. Welsh, maybe? There was an off chance Holmes didn't speak that.

"I was there," Holmes replied coolly. "He required me to leave."

"What, did you storm in there yelling too?" John asked.

The sudden flash of surprise on Holmes' features was enough. It was barely there, and was clamped down upon quickly, but John had seen it.

"Oh, brilliant," he said. "Really? What made you think that was a good idea? Isn't it bad enough that this Richard was working for that madman Moriarty and kidnapped Gabriel? You had to go start a row about that? Don't you two have some sort of," he waved his hands, trying to articulate a vague idea, "_means_ to deal with Jim Moriarty? I mean, sure, he's a psychotic genius, but you're both ridiculously intelligent. Why not just, I don't know, do some crime boss stuff and take care of it? Why did it even come to this? And why are you yelling at me about it?"

Holmes continued to stare at him and John ran out of steam suddenly, aware that he was the one yelling, or at least verging on it.

Holmes' eyes were still blazing but his expression was cooler now.

"Gabriel was not aware of Richard's employment until Richard chose to inform him yesterday," he replied in a stiff voice.

John stared at him a moment, then replayed the curiously formal sentence in his mind to make sure it meant what he thought it meant.

"Oh, so that's what this is about. You're rowing with him because he had his brother killed and didn't tell _you_ and he's rowing with you because you didn't tell _him_ that his brother was employed by – what? Your competition? Good Lord, is it always like this between you two? Good job you _aren't_ romantic partners, then. I don't think London could take it. You'd probably have half the city blown up over a tiff."

Holmes stared at him.

"It is not 'always like this' between us, Doctor," he said tersely. "We don't –"

"You don't what? You don't row? _What_? You're telling me you've never had a row with your closest friend and you choose _this_ to start over? Well, congratulations, Mister Holmes, for such an intelligent man, you are one of the thickest people I've ever met."

Holmes kept staring at him another moment, then abruptly dropped himself onto John's couch, propping his shod feet on the edge of the coffee table so his long legs were slightly bent at the knee, and folding his arms across his chest, glaring straight in front of him.

John spread his hands and gave Holmes a questioning look, which was ignored.

"So, what, your plan for dealing with this is to sulk on my couch?"

At this, Holmes sat up straight, looking offended.

"I hardly _sulk_, Doctor."

"Call it what you want," John sighed. "Listen, I have nothing to do with this –"

"On the contrary, you may very well have saved Gabriel's life. Yes, I would have noticed he was missing quite quickly, but London is a rather large city and I have no reason to search an abandoned area of the docks. It is February and well below freezing at night. I may not be a doctor and I may be 'thick' as you so kindly pointed out, but I am aware that hypothermia can lead to death."

John sighed again. Holmes wasn't slouching now, but hadn't gotten up from the couch.

Well, he was John's boss and John understood the anger that came from seeing someone important hurt. It was anger that displaced fear. Because it was easier to be enraged and feel the adrenaline spike to _do something_ rather than feel terrified and helpless.

He thought it best not to point that out in so many words, however.

Had he thought his experiences in the war would apply to the way relationships worked in his new job? No. He was starting to understand how they would, however. From where he stood, there were two sides, Holmes and Moriarty, and although they were on more cordial terms than the allies and the Taliban, a line had been crossed.

John had seen some of his army mates lose control and go straight for vengeance. It never ended well for anyone involved.

He had the feeling that rash action from Holmes might be more devastating in its effects. There were a lot of people in London who could get caught up in this who did not deserve it, if John's assessment of Jim Moriarty even touched on being right. He'd seen his far share of psychopaths in the army – even one was one too many – and he knew he was not overestimating the man's abilities.

And probably not Holmes' either, when provoked on a personal level.

He decided to approach it in the most common British way, the one way that was almost guaranteed to be accepted.

"Listen, can I offer you a cup of tea?"


	21. Chapter 21

John got the feeling it was hard to surprise Holmes, but when he _was_ taken unawares, he reacted very quickly to it. For a moment he was frozen, then his eyes narrowed, flashing as he evaluated the potential threat in the surprise. His features relaxed somewhat when he realized there was no danger in the offer of tea from one of his employees but he remained slightly displeased, as though trying to evaluate John's ulterior motives.

_Is it an ulterior motive to not want to be yelled at? _John wondered. _It seems like a pretty straightforward one to me._

"Yes, I believe that would be acceptable," Holmes said and John almost snorted, earning a cocked eyebrow for his effort to repress his sarcasm.

"You don't have to stay in your coat, you know," John sighed. "It's a bit warm in here for that, and I do have a coat rack on the wall. Make yourself at home, I'll be a few minutes."

Holmes nodded, rising from the couch and unwinding his scarf as John went into the kitchen, shaking his head. At least he'd diffused the situation somewhat so that Holmes was no longer livid even if he was still angry.

_Well, justifiably so_, John thought, as he filled the brand new electric kettle. Even in his world it probably wasn't common to have your psychopathic competitor hire your business partner's brother and then have one brother abduct the other. John wondered if there were any unwritten rules that had been broken, both with the abduction and the assassination.

He sighed.

Assassination, murder. Whichever. And here he was, making tea for a man who employed assassins as a matter of course.

John's own boss.

He pushed aside his regimental mug, shuffling it to the back of the cupboard and took out two other mugs purchased at the Oxfam shop because they were relatively new looking and serviceable. He didn't like using the regimental one without Jamie around – it made him feel vaguely guilty. It had been one of the things they'd shared in the halfway house, this utter befuddlement about being awarded a _mug_ for one's service. Jamie hated his with a passion but would sometimes use it when John came around with his. But mostly for gin, not for tea.

John poured some milk into each mug and spooned in two sugars as well, popping in a tea bag. With the hum of the fridge and the sound of the water rattling in the kettle, he couldn't hear what Holmes was doing and wondered if maybe this were a bad thing.

He shook his head – presumably Holmes could take care of himself to some degree, since he'd made it this far as a successful criminal without getting himself killed. John just hoped that the other man wasn't snooping about and being nosey. John had nothing to be embarrassed about but he didn't fancy his criminal boss poking through his belongings. Or bugging his flat. Or Lord only knew what else.

He'd actually felt somewhat better, he realized, when he'd thought that Holmes and Mitchell were a couple. John couldn't quite put his finger on why. Perhaps because, despite his words about them having blown up half of London if they'd had a tiff, the idea of both of them floating around loose was a bit unnerving. Especially Holmes. John had liked the thought that _someone_ could contain Sherlock Holmes.

He wondered if someone could contain Jim Moriarty.

Perhaps Holmes was doing so.

He sighed to himself. This was really not something he should be thinking about. He was a doctor; that was his job. Simple as that. John hoped if it ever came to blows between Holmes and Moriarty – or Holmes and anyone – that he would not be dragged into anything.

_Maybe I'll quit once my year is up_, he thought. _Bound to be some good A&E jobs out there. Make less, but I'd live._

He unplugged the kettle when it clicked off, poured the boiling water into each mug, then pushed it back against the splashboards. John picked up the mugs, went back into the livingroom and stopped short.

Holmes was stretched on John's couch, on his back, eyes closed, hands in what John thought of a yoga pose, the tips of his middle fingers touching his chin lightly.

John hadn't considered his off-handed offer of "make yourself at home" to mean "please have a nap on my couch".

"Oh, no, I'm not sleeping," Holmes replied and John nearly jumped, fighting down the reaction through years of training – being very glad he could do so, since he was holding two steaming mugs of tea.

"Then what are you doing?" John asked carefully.

"Thinking."

"Thinking?"

"Yes, I find this position highly conducive to thought. I have the couch in my office for this very reason. I can relax all of my muscles, I need not brace myself against gravity but can work with it to enhance the relaxation, and I do not have to be concerned by increased blood flow to my lower extremities, which would draw oxygen away from my brain, or to my head, which would cause discomfort and light-headedness. Additionally, I am not putting undue stress on any particular muscle group by sitting in an uncomfortable position or slouching and I am not causing myself the subtle tension that invariably accompanies pacing. It's quite relaxing actually, Doctor. You should try it."

"Right," John said. "You still want your tea?"

"Oh yes. Just put it on the coffee table, will you?"

John hesitated, wondering if he should ask Mitchell next time he saw the younger man if Holmes was like this in Mitchell's flat as well. Given that he'd apparently broken in the previous day to nick Mitchell's Doctor Who DVDs, probably.

He put the mug on the table and settled into his armchair, stirring his tea gently and sipping it.

"And what are you thinking about?" he asked, feeling suddenly a bit like a therapist with Holmes stretched out on his couch.

"Whether or not I should kill Jim."

Nope, scratch that, not at all like therapy.

"Sorry?" John asked.

"I would quite like to wipe that self-satisfied little smirk off of his entirely unpleasant face, Doctor," Holmes replied, opening his eyes and sitting up in a smooth motion. He sipped his own tea, then looked around for somewhere to put the teabag.

"Oh, sorry," John said and fetched a small bowl from the kitchen, depositing his own teabag in there as well.

"It would be difficult to convince me that he had no knowledge of what Richard would do," Holmes continued, as though this were a normal conversation to be having with one's private physician. "Which leads me to believe, because it is Jim, that he had planned this since at least the day you met him in my office. However, I also strongly suspect he instructed Richard _not_ to hurt Gabriel, at least not substantially. He enjoys these games, you see."

John thought he was beginning to see, yes.

"However, simply shooting him is rather out of the question. He's so rarely alone – never armed himself, of course, but always accompanied by a least one trained marksman. And even if I were to get him alone, the consequences following his death would be disastrous."

"How so?" John heard himself asking and cursed inwardly. He really didn't want to encourage this discussion.

Holmes looked up at him in surprise.

"He's a master criminal, Doctor. He has a vast network of people, some of whom are beyond even my knowledge. While I am certain that some of them would be pleased to have him removed and see an opportunity for advancement, others would be quiet irate at losing their boss and source of income."

"Ah," John said.

"Of course, it's the equal or greater threat that has kept Jim in line all these years, which leads me to suspect that he put some strict limits on Richard's interaction with Gabriel."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"Come now, Doctor," Holmes said, sipping his tea, his grey eyes meeting John's. "You can't imagine if I am sitting here discussing how preferable it would be to have Jim removed that Jim has not had the same thoughts about me."

John stared at him for a moment.

"Half the city for a tiff indeed," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh, no," Holmes said in an assured voice.

"What?" John asked.

"If Jim were to kill me – or rather, to cause my death, since he himself would not do the actual deed – then my people would raze London to the ground looking for him. From this, there _would_ be no escape, no game. And since the entirety of his existence is a constant search to alleviate boredom, he doesn't care about anything else. He has no means of being afraid. He's a psychopath. But he loathes boredom, Doctor. He craves his own definition of fun to keep the tediousness at bay. If my people were hunting him, there would be no game. Only the desperate need to survive."

John blinked, uncertain what to say or how to react. He settled on:

"Oh."

He was more than a little creeped out that Holmes could be discussing Jim Moriarty's psychopathic tendencies in such a casual voice, as though he were commenting on the weather. As though it were normal. Well, to him it probably was. John supposed it wasn't much different than the conversations he'd had with his fellow doctors and other soldiers back in Afghanistan, logistical discussions that would seem harsh and discomfiting to most people back in London.

"So, um, what are you going to do?" John asked, morbidly fascinated by this point.

"I haven't decided. It requires more thought than can be given in one morning over a single cup of tea. Pleasant as this is," he said, lifting his mug somewhat.

"I'm glad you like it," John said automatically, but found he really was glad. Why was that? Probably best to have his boss think well of him, he decided. It was a bit hard to see Holmes as a boss at the moment, relaxed in John's flat, sipping his tea, feet crossed on the coffee table without regard for the fact that his shoes were still on.

Making himself at home indeed.

"Tell me something, Doctor."

John nodded, but privately hoped that Holmes wasn't about to ask his opinion on what to do with Jim Moriarty, because he wasn't sure himself. Turn him over to the police? It seemed the best way, but John could imagine that a trial would be drawn out and complicated and that Jim probably had any number of expensive lawyers who would probably never even let him see the inside a courtroom.

"Do you enjoy living here?"

John started slightly at the sudden redirection of the conversation.

"Yes, of course," he replied quickly but with feeling. The flat was brilliant. In the week and a half that he'd been living there, it had already begun to feel like home and John could trace a path from his bedroom to the bathroom in the darkness, and find his way with minimum stumbling or fuss from his bedroom to the kitchen in the morning without bothering with lights. Every day he lived there, his leg seemed to feel better and stronger and he hadn't realized how horribly tied the phantom pain had been to where he'd been living previously.

"You don't miss your old residence?"

"Oh God, no," John said vehemently. "You saw it. Can you imagine someone would miss that?"

"Well yes," Holmes replied, nodding, his dark curls shifting around his face as he did so. He had quite good hair, John thought, and managed to strike that rare balance between dark hair and pale skin without having constantly visible five o'clock shadow on his face. The pale grey of his eyes only added to the stark contrast, then John wondered why he was even thinking about this. Who cared?

"But only if they were homeless, admittedly. I did have trouble believing that this flat was somehow inferior to the halfway house."

"Believe me, it's light years better than that."

Holmes smirked.

"An accurate use of the term 'light years', John, judging distance, not time."

John was startled by two things – the use of his first name, which he hadn't heard Holmes say by itself; he'd gotten rather used to just being referred to as "Doctor", and given Holmes' apparent devotion to the Doctor Who series, this was maybe not so unexpected.

He was also startled by the comment. Holmes was right, of course, but it seemed an odd thing to say. Although Holmes did strike John as someone who appreciated accuracy even in casual conversation.

"Bit of an astronomy buff, are you?" he asked.

Holmes actually grinned at him, a brief smile but a real one.

"A sometimes hobby," he said. "You would be surprised by the number of people who do not actually know that our Sun is itself a star. Failure of the education system all around, I feel, combined with a general lack of effort on the part of most people. But that's irrelevant to the conversation. In the past eleven days, you have returned to the halfway house four times, Doctor. The first time I assumed you'd forgot something, but your flat was not so big that you could have left that much behind. I surmise there is a reason that is not nostalgia, because you are unlikely to feel nostalgic for that place. So what is it?"

"Wait, how did you know I was going up there?" John asked.

"I've been following your movements," Holmes replied, as though this were entirely reasonable.

"What?" John demanded, feeling a flare of indignation. "Why?"

Holmes sipped his tea again, looking surprised.

"Because you are new in my employ, Doctor. Trust must be earned."

"And so you're having me followed?" John snapped.

"Of course."

John opened his mouth to retort something, then shut it again. Everywhere he'd gone? The furniture stores? The Oxfam shops? To get groceries? To a movie?

"Yes," Holmes said. "Also to ensure Jim was not paying you any undue attention."

John stared at him for a long moment, then gave his head a shake.

"Well if someone followed me up there then you must know why I went?"

Holmes shook his head, dark curls bouncing gently again.

"No, I had them follow you to your destinations, not monitor your activities. I do not need to satisfy myself that Jim isn't employing you clandestinely, John. I did so before even meeting you. Jim's network is extensive, but it seemed unlikely he was employing a former army doctor as a plant in hopes that I would hire you. He has much more direct means of contacting me, after all."

John nodded – he remembered the first one he witnessed quite well. Once he'd remembered it vividly in the middle of the night, snapping his eyes open, unable to shake the image of those mad gleaming eyes from his mind for a few minutes.

"So?" Holmes said, twitching his eyebrows up. "The purpose of the trips?"

John sighed, setting his nearly empty mug aside.

"Visiting a friend who's still up there," he replied.

"Ah," Holmes said, realization lighting his grey eyes. "I suspected as much. Who is he? Or she, I suppose – I don't wish to make any incorrect judgments."

"He," John replied. "His name is James McTavish – Jamie. He was in my unit in Afghanistan, one of the mechanics. Very good mechanic, very good man."

"He was injured." It wasn't a question, John noted, but a statement. How much had Holmes already found out? Was he asking just to see what John would tell him?

"The same day I was. There was an explosion – I don't know. I don't remember that bit. He was hit by shrapnel. In the throat. It severed the nerves that control his larynx, so he has vocal chord paralysis. It's like paralysis of the legs, same principle. So he can't speak. He almost died – he was lucky. But because he can't speak, he can't work."

"Surely fixing engines doesn't require talking to them," Holmes commented.

"It requires talking to the customers and other mechanics," John replied. "And since it's not exactly feasible to write everything down on a pad, he can't work, at least not in the field he trained in. So he still lives up there."

Holmes glanced at the staircase that led up to the spare bedroom.

"I've offered," John said before Holmes could point out that he had an extra room. "He won't."

"And why not?"

"He doesn't want the charity. That, at least, I understand. It's bad enough to live off the government, Mister Holmes, feeling like a beggar. Worse to live off a friend, knowing there is some obligation there, even if it's only one-sided."

Holmes frowned at his tea mug, drained the last of it, and set it aside.

"Can I say, for a military man, the formality doesn't suit you when it comes to civilians. You're a doctor after all – you should be the one insisting on the title, I think."

"What?" John asked, trying to keep up with yet another switch.

"Calling me 'Mister Holmes'. It has a strange ring coming from a doctor. None of the other doctors who have worked for me have called me that."

"What do they call you, then?"

Holmes gave him a puzzled look.

"Sherlock, of course," he said. "What else? It _is_ my name, unusual though it may be."

"But – I'm also your employee."

"Yes, and a number of my employees call me Sherlock as well. Or 'boss' although I can't imagine you really using that word." He paused, tilting his head to one side, as though trying to picture John doing so. "No, no, it doesn't work."

"I'd – feel more comfortable with 'Mister Holmes', I think."

"I would not, and I am your boss as you pointed out. This friend of yours, is he any good at his job?"

John tried to switch tracks yet again.

"Um, yes, very good."

"Would you be displeased if I offered him not charity but a job?"

"You don't –" John started, cutting himself off before finishing with "have to do that for me", biting down hard on the words. Why for him? This wasn't about him, this was about Jamie. "Why would you have a mechanic?"

Holmes' eyebrows twitched upwards.

"The same reason I have a doctor, Doctor. People get sick. Vehicles break down. A mechanic is really a surgeon for cars, is he not? The same specialization in training, the same level of skill, the same need to understand a complex system of internal workings that can fail for any number of reasons."

John hesitated. He'd never thought of it that way, but Holmes was right.

"And I do have a lot of vehicles," Holmes continued. "Would he take it as charity, do you think? Or suspect you got him the job?"

"Didn't I?"

"Only tangentially. I'm always in the market for good mechanics, less so for physicians. In fact, I wish you'd mentioned this when I first met you."

"Ah, sorry. It's not like I knew."

"Quite right. How will he react, do you think?"

"Um –" John thought furiously, trying to work out how Jamie _would_ react and how to get the other man to accept so he could get out of the halfway house and back to his life. "Would you let me make the offer in your place?"

Holmes looked surprised again, but thankfully didn't go through the whole range of suspicion this time.

"Do you believe that would work better?"

John nodded. He knew Jamie and Holmes didn't. Jamie wouldn't respond well to Holmes swanking in there and extending what would look like a pity job. But Jamie had convinced John to take this offer. John could convince Jamie to do the same.

"I was planning on going round this afternoon anyway," John said. "Mrs. Hudson has her bridge club, so she doesn't need me here. If you give me some details, I can tell him."

Holmes considered him levelly, then the corners of his lips twitched upward.

"Very well, Doctor," he said. "I will speak with my chief mechanic and ring you with the details. And I will send a car to take you up there at whatever time you choose."

John started to protest that he had more than enough money now to afford the ride, but Holmes held up one long-fingered hand, shaking his head, the expression on his face serious but not impatient.

"All things considered, Doctor, I'd very much prefer that those close to me are not travelling by cab right at the moment. Do this for my own peace of mind, will you?"

John hesitated, then nodded.

"Of course," he found himself replying. "If that's what you want."


	22. Chapter 22

Gabriel managed to doze for awhile, vaguely aware that he was doing so, until his phone rang and he stirred fully back to consciousness. He lifted his head then picked up the returned phone from his coffee table. He was instantly grateful that Richard had stupidly kept the phone on him and that Cheryl had managed to take it off of his brother before this text message came in.

He had refrained from telling Richard about Sandra and was therefore glad that his brother had not had the opportunity to find out via the stolen phone.

_Fancy breakfast?_

Gabriel smiled, suddenly feel less exhausted and wrung out. He lived in a world that his brother now didn't, he realized. He was never again going to have to worry about seeing or confronting Richard nor about having anyone he cared about doing the same. It was liberating, having that weight removed, and astonishing to realize he hadn't even known he was carrying it.

_With you, absolutely_, he replied.

_Good_, Sandra sent back a moment later. _Come over to my flat in about an hour. I'll cook._

Gabriel grinned. He already knew she was a brilliant cook – she had come to his flat once to make him dinner, dismissing his concerns that he didn't need her to cook for him, assuring him she enjoyed it. After a few minutes of shock on her part at the size of his flat, during which time she wandered it as wide-eyed and disbelieving as he had first done when he'd moved in, she had set to work making him one of the best home-cooked meals he'd ever eaten. Gabriel had settled himself on a chair in the kitchen while she worked, noticing how effortlessly she did so, how little she had to ask him where he kept things. He wasn't a poor cook himself – except for at the moment, because standing for long periods of time was exhausting and working one-handed with his right hand still braced in the crutch was tricky and even more tiring than the standing.

Sandra's cooking had been a welcome respite from the take away he'd be living on and he was definitely looking forward to breakfast now. It was surprising to find himself anticipating anything at all after both the day he'd had yesterday and the argument he'd had with Sherlock earlier that morning. He wondered if he should be feeling guilty but found himself unable to do so.

Gabriel felt a moment's worry – was the lack of guilt over ordering his own brother's murder a bad sign? Did it make him like Jim?

No, he decided, shaking his head to himself. Because Jim wouldn't question any lack of guilt. He wouldn't even notice it. He wouldn't even understand that it existed.

And Gabriel couldn't say that Richard hadn't deserved it.

_All right, enough, stop it_, he told himself firmly. Thinking about Richard and what had happened the day before only made his leg hurt again. He'd have to go round today for those x-rays that John wanted, but first there were more important things.

_I'll be there_, he replied.

_Brilliant. There's someone here who wants to meet you._

This gave Gabriel pause – he hadn't known her very long and surely, since she was a nurse, she understood that he was not really at his best right now. The thought of meeting someone new was more than a little daunting. It took enough energy as it was to keep up a conversation with someone he knew, let alone make small talk and be pleasantly interesting and engaging.

_Don't worry, no one strenuous_, Sandra sent a moment later._ Not my parents or sister._

That made him feel a bit better. He could only imagine how her family would judge him right now and Gabriel suspected that it was only because Sandra had seen him several times in the hospital that he'd come across as more than a drug-addled patient.

_Right, then. An hour._

He called for a car in advance, having no illusions about a cab right now, rang security to tell them where he was going to so they could pass that onto Sherlock – he did not want to tell the other man himself right now, but knew full well what would happen if he left and didn't let Sherlock know where he was going – and made himself more presentable. Gabriel took the rare opportunity not to wear a suit, dressing in a pair of dark blue jeans, a short-sleeved white dress shirt and a dark green jumper that darkened and brightened the colour of his eyes.

Dressing and getting ready took long enough that he left as soon as he was finished in order to make it in decent time. The car took him round to Sandra's flat in Wandsworth, only a few blocks from Clapham Common. She'd warned him upon seeing his flat that hers was tiny by comparison but Gabriel didn't care. He had no illusions that the cost of his flat was outside the reach of most people, nor any ideas that if Sherlock hadn't hired him that he wouldn't be living in a small place himself.

Unless he'd taken up with Interpol, of course, because then who knew where he'd be. Could be anywhere in the world. _Anywhere in the world in a small flat most likely_, he thought with a grin as he exited the car and then rang Sandra's buzzer.

There was no elevator in her building and she was on the first floor, so he made his way slowly up stairs. Sandra was waiting for him in her doorway with a bright and apologetic smile.

"Sorry about the stairs," she said.

"I need the exercise," Gabriel replied. He felt he really did – there would be no gym or running for some time to come. But it annoyed him that a simple set of stairs could leave him winded.

Sandra kissed him lightly and let him inside and Gabriel looked around, memorizing the layout from habit, mildly annoyed that he was doing so but unable to shake the practice that had been trained into him. It was a small flat, as she'd said, with the sitting room and kitchen separated by a counter and a change from pale carpet to linoleum. The windows in the livingroom overlooked the street below and were both fairly large, so that a good amount of light came in, even during the fleeting winter days. There was a short hall with a door at the end that was most likely the bedroom, another one for the bathroom, and a small closet.

But what he noticed more immediately was the way it felt. Truly a home. Everything in there, the furniture, the colours, the decorations, the knickknacks and personal items like books and DVDs, they all made a flat that was comfortable, warm and inviting.

_Like her_, he thought, and smiled.

"Have a seat," Sandra said, waving him to the couch. Gabriel sat down carefully on the dusty-green cushions, snagging a throw pillow covered in a gold-and-grey embroidered case, and propped his foot up. He glanced around again, looking at the pictures of Sandra and a slightly older woman who looked a lot like her – that would be Joanna, her sister – of Sandra in a graduation gown with two smiling people, her parents. She looked a lot like her mother, but had the same bright smile as her father.

He grinned at the Doctor Who DVDs – she had said she was a fan when she'd seen the same set at his flat.

"Who's this friend?" he asked, glancing toward the small kitchen at her. She had already pulled some supplies from one of the white cupboards, settling ingredients for pancakes on the counter.

"Yes," she said grinning, washing her hands quickly. "Just a moment."

Gabriel gave her a puzzled look that she ignored as she went down the hall and opened the bedroom door.

"Come on," she said to an unseen person. "Come."

A moment later, a small black and white dog with patches of light brown on its face was bounding down the hall toward him. It ran up to the couch, thankfully not jumping right onto him, given his broken leg, but stood between the sofa and the low, glass-topped coffee table, wagging its tail so hard its whole body was trembling with excitement.

Gabriel stared, unable to stop a smile.

"You got a puppy!" he said, then started to laugh at the ridiculousness of that stupid nickname Jim had for him, the one Richard had used only yesterday, and the fact that there was a real puppy in his life now.

Sandra sat down in the armchair beside the couch, tucking her hands beneath her knees.

"Not quite a puppy anymore, Sam's just over a year old now. Aren't you?"

The dog turned to her at the mention of its name and kept wagging its tail. Gabriel reached down to pet it and it sniffed his hand, then licked it once before sitting down, tail still going.

"Where did you get him?"

"Her," Sandra corrected. "From Joanna. They bought her awhile ago from a shelter. She's part corgi and part who knows what else – I think she was rescued from somewhere. They wanted a dog for my nephew, Hollis, but he developed an allergy, poor boy. Not terrible, but enough he couldn't live with Sam. So I said I'd take her, because he was heartbroken when they had to give her up. He's only four. What do you think?"

"I think she's brilliant," Gabriel said. "Aren't you, Sam?"

The dog looked up at him and then stood on her hind legs, nudging Gabriel's good leg with her nose.

"Is she allowed on the furniture?" he asked.

"She has fairly free rein of the flat," Sandra sighed, but with a smile. Gabriel bent his left leg up and Sam jumped onto the couch, sniffing his cast curiously, then settling down beside his right foot, the end of her tail still wagging.

"Well, I have confirmation," Sandra said with a grin. "She likes you. You can't have a much better recommendation than that."

Gabriel laughed.

"Anything to drink?" Sandra asked, pushing herself to her feet.

"Water, if you don't mind."

"Of course not," she said, flashing him a smile over her shoulder as she went into her small kitchen. She poured him a glass then delivered it and he thanked her.

"Raspberry pancakes with maple syrup sound all right?" she asked, going back into the kitchen and pushing up her sleeves.

"All right?" Gabriel echoed, grinning and shaking his head. "More than all right, it sounds brilliant."

"Good," Sandra said with another bright smile. "You make yourself comfortable, this won't take long. And," she said, pointing a wooden spoon at him, shooting him a more mischievous smile. "As soon as that leg of yours is better, I expect to sample your cooking, mister."

Gabriel laughed.

"If you can wait six weeks, you're on."

"It's a date," Sandra replied. "I look forward to it."

* * *

><p>Someone came by the flat shortly after noon with paperwork for John to deliver to Jamie. He thanked the bicycle courier, signed where she indicated, then watched her insert herself effortlessly into the flow of traffic. Did Holmes have his own courier network or did he hire out like most people? How did one run a criminal business? Well, on the books it obviously wouldn't look criminal and that meant there was a probably a great deal of legitimate business going on. Maybe they really <em>did<em> do some international real estate.

He shook his head and went back into his flat. The less he knew, the better. He didn't even know why he was thinking about it.

John went upstairs, checked the paperwork to make sure it said what Holmes had told him it would say when he'd rung with some details and instructions, then tucked it back in the envelope. He pulled out his phone, checked the time and opened his voice memos.

"Check with Gabriel about x-rays," he said, then saved it so he'd remember to do this later.

He'd bought a new phone a few days ago and had returned Harry's to her. She'd tried to refuse it but John had pressed it into her hands, telling her that Clara had bought it for her as a gift because Clara loved her and that Harry needed to think about that. He didn't want his sister-in-law's present to Harry – Clara was a wonderful woman and deserved better than to have this loving gesture just tossed away.

Harry had seemed chastened and had taken it back then. John doubted Clara was going to give Harry another chance even though Harry had managed to be sober six days by that point – she had put Clara through too much and used up all of her second chances.

Now, Harry sent John a text at the end of each day with the number of days she'd been sober. John sent her a text each morning with the same words, "one more", to keep her going. Whatever she was doing, it seemed to be working. He hoped she could really keep it up this time.

He showered to get the sawdust out of his hair and off of his skin then changed into some new clothes. John had worked on the dresser some after Holmes had left following their entirely bizarre conversation. He'd breezed out very blithely, completely contrary to the way in which he'd stormed in. He was like winter weather, John thought. Totally unpredictable and changeable without warning. But somehow, this didn't seem entirely bad.

John rang the number Holmes had given him for his car service, feeling weird doing so, but a very solicitous and friendly young woman answered and assured him they'd have someone there within twenty minutes. John gathered up what he'd need, including his laptop for which he now had a laptop bag. He slid the envelope in there and his wallet and phone, dressed for the winter weather and snagged his keys.

He waited outside until a black Mercedes pulled up and the driver got out and opened the door for him, which was apparently standard. John settled into the back seat and gave the address for the halfway house. When John was dropped off, the driver assured the doctor that he would wait. John was surprised by this, but the driver seemed to take it in stride and it all felt very luxurious.

He made his way to Jamie's tiny flat, knocking and announcing himself. A moment later, the door was pulled open and he was greeted with that familiar grin. John grinned back and Jamie let him inside, raising his eyebrows at the continued lack of cane.

"I know, I know," John said in response to the I-told-you-so look on Jamie's face. He pulled out his laptop as Jamie set himself to making tea and then dropped the envelope with the contract on the desk. Jamie raised an eyebrow again, this time questioningly. John returned it with his captain's glare which was matched and raised by a sergeant's glower and John grinned.

"Just read it," he said, powering up his laptop and opening his chat programme. Jamie gave him his tea with a quiet huff and John sat down in his usual chair, waiting as the younger man pulled the contract out and began reading.

Jamie sank to sitting partway through, then stopped reading, frowning and looking up at John who just gave him a pointed look in return. Jamie stared at him a moment longer, then kept reading slowly, as if looking for some indication that this was a joke.

When he finished, he reached for his own laptop.

_You're bloody kidding, right?_

"No," John said, shaking his head. "I don't think he's one for the joking around, really. Certainly not practical jokes."

_Yes, but – John, what the hell? Did you do this?_

"Nope," John said. "He asked why I was coming up here and I told him who you were and he latched onto the word 'mechanic' right away. It was his idea, not mine. And it's a job, not a hand-out. He probably spent most of the morning after he left getting your service records and learning all about you, because he's a bit creepy that way. But I get the feeling he wouldn't hire someone who wasn't brilliant at their job."

John paused to sip his tea and Jamie looked back down at the contract in his lap.

_You didn't tell me about the C flat in your building._ Holmes had included a rental agreement for the other flat in Mrs. Hudson's house, indicating that rent would be reduced for Jamie as well if he agreed to provide some protection to the older woman. Holmes was nothing if not thorough, John thought.

"I didn't know," John said. "Honestly. Apparently it needs to be dehumidified and Holmes says he'll take care of that, so you could stay with me – only until it's done! I know you've said no. This would be temporary. And you'll like Mrs. Hudson. Love her, actually. But you could also live anywhere you wanted."

_Okay, but, I mean – it's out of nowhere._

"Yeah, I get the impression that's how he does things. I wasn't expecting my job, either."

_Good point._

Jamie sat back, chewing on his lower lip, his eyes distant and pensive.

"Look, I know it's not really –"

Jamie held up a hand and John stopped, waiting for a moment.

_I told you to take the job, John. I knew it wasn't really above board, too. That's not what I'm thinking about. I'm a mechanic. I fix cars. If I can make the piles of scrap metal we use in Afghanistan run and run properly, I can do it to a city Merc. It's a bit like you comparing the surgery out there with putting a plaster on a scraped knee here._

John chuckled and Jamie flashed him a smile. Then he looked thoughtful again, pursing his lips.

_I was talking to Tricia earlier today._

He tapped his computer to indicate that he'd been chatting with her online.

"Yes?" John asked. "How is she?"

_She's all right. Good as can be expected out there._

John felt a flash of relief – it was always good to hear that. Each time he or Jamie spoke with her was a little bit closer to her eventual return, a little bit of time in which something could have happened but hadn't. One tiny step. He knew that Jamie kept himself from hoping, because John did, too. It was just easier not to think of when her tour was supposed to end.

_Do you know what the last thing she said to me before we were shipped back here was?_

John was slightly startled by the question – he'd never thought about it, but she'd been there when they'd left. He had still be high on morphine and half-dazed but she'd hugged him awkwardly, avoiding the shoulder wound she'd spent hours repairing, promising him he'd be all right and that she'd call the following week and insisting that she would be fine, too. He always wished he'd been more lucid, had managed more than the slurred "bye, Tee" and the weak hug in return.

"No," John said. "You never said."

Jamie hesitated a moment before replying.

_She told me to wait for her._

John stared at his friend a moment – then the refusal to return to Edinburgh suddenly made complete sense. There were veteran's hospitals and housing there, too. And he had family in the Scottish capital. But he'd insisted on staying in London and John hadn't questioned it because he was happy to have Jamie here, both as a doctor to keep an eye on him and a friend for the company.

He hadn't thought it had anything to do with Tricia, but he might have suspected, he told himself.

_So I am_, Jamie typed. _But I'd rather not be _here_ when she gets back. Rather not be penniless and a burden. Who wants that? Who wants to come home to that? No way. Remember what I told you once about the mug?_

John grinned.

"Yeah," he said.

_Well, I'm going to take my mug and GTFO of here. Then, as soon as she gets home, the three of us are doing to drink that shitty gin until we're absolutely plastered and throw our fucking mugs in the bloody Thames. That's what._

John's grin widened.

"So it's a yes?"

Jamie fished a pen out of his desk drawer and signed and initialled the contract.

_Damn right it's a yes. Vehicles are vehicles, John. Who cares who owns them? Will you give this to him?_

"Tell you what, why don't you come down with me and give it to him yourself? Why don't we pack your bags now and get you the hell out of here this afternoon? Why stay one more second, Jamie? To hell with this place."

_To hell with it_, Jamie agreed, grinning again, his grin even brighter than John had seen in ages. Not since Afghanistan, he realized.

He understood the feeling. Jamie had his life back. He had purpose and independence and wasn't sitting in limbo, waiting for something to happen.

And, apparently, he had something to look forward to. Some_one_ to look forward to.

_You're not going to give me that older brother lecture crap, are you?_

John laughed.

"No, I approve one hundred percent," he replied. "Now come on. Let's get you packed."

Jamie drained his tea, smacked his regimental mug on the desk pointedly and stood, fishing out his duffle bag and his one suitcase. He tossed the duffle to John who snagged it out of the air with a grin.

"Let's go," Jamie mouthed and they set to work.


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock sat in the darkness and watched Gabriel sleep.

It wasn't so much watching as listening, because there were no lights on in Gabriel's flat and only the faintest illumination came in around the edges of the heavy custom-made drapes. London was never dark but Gabriel had blocked out the light insofar as possible, so that Sherlock's eyes had adjusted as much as they were able and he could just make out Gabriel's sleeping outline in the darkness, more of a subtle delineation of shadows than anything.

He was annoyed that he was there.

Not because it was wasting time he could be using for other things – he rarely conducted business in the middle of the night. It didn't matter that in other time zones it may be working hours. If people wanted to reach him, they operated on his schedule. He'd maintained that from the beginning. His services weren't cheap because they were superior and if anyone disliked his schedule, they could go elsewhere.

There was always Jim, who was far less reliable in terms of not hauling off and shooting someone because he didn't like the way in which they looked at him. Sherlock would drop clients discreetly but with no uncertainty if he disliked their attitudes or behaviour but he found it in poor taste – and far too likely to involve the law – to simply shoot them for it. People were only removed if they were a threat to him, either directly or indirectly. Jim just liked chaos and found it anywhere he could.

When he couldn't find it, he created it.

Sherlock also wasn't missing out on sleep. He'd slept the night before. He had inherited this sparse sleeping pattern from his mother and had never found it detrimental. He may doze for some hours that night but he may not. Getting his mind to shut off was not the problem – he had trained himself for years in meditation techniques in order to do so, because sometimes he _did_ need to sleep. It was simply a matter if he chose to do so tonight based on how Gabriel was sleeping.

He listened to the younger man's breathing patterns in the dark, slumped in a chair, long legs extended in front of him, his right leg slightly bent to brace himself.

He was annoyed that he was there because John Watson had told him to be.

Apparently, Gabriel had made some mention in the tirade about friendship and loyalty that Sherlock had sat up with him following Richard's attack to make sure he didn't have nightmares. When John had come to Sherlock's office with Jamie McTavish and the signed contract, he had taken a moment in private to insist that Sherlock do this again now. He had told Sherlock flat out that Sherlock needed to grow up – grow up! – and provide his friend with some support, not with accusations and a row. He'd thrown Gabriel's words in Sherlock's face and used them to point out that Sherlock might need to actually illustrate the loyalty Gabriel claimed he had. He'd dispensed with all of Sherlock's attempts to interject, dismissing any potential concerns as stupid. He owed this to Gabriel, John contended, after picking a fight with an injured man who had been more or less held hostage by someone who had assaulted him in the past, a family member no less, and who had aggravated his current injury by forcing him to walk on a leg that should have been bearing absolutely no weight at the moment and may have set his recovery back by a week or more.

And here he was, doing what John Watson had told him to do.

Like some child being punished.

Only John was _right_, which made the whole thing worse.

Since when did he listen to his employees' assessment of his personal responsibilities? Only Gabriel – well, occasionally Cheryl. And sometimes Charles Chauvière. But that was it. And he'd known all of them for years – Cheryl and Charles for over a decade, Gabriel for eight years.

John Watson he'd known for less than two weeks.

_It's sound medical advice_, he told himself, not at all believing that was what had got him to listen to John. It had been the unrelenting conviction that John _would_ be listened to, the complete lack of acknowledgement of the possibility that Sherlock wouldn't do this.

Doctor's orders, he'd said.

_Oh yes, I thought it was brilliant to hire an army doctor, didn't I?_ Sherlock asked himself with a sigh. And there was the crux of it – he had no one to blame but himself.

Well, maybe Harriet Watson. But blaming her was pointless. He hadn't even met her despite knowing her brother. He couldn't blame Gabriel, who had not asked for any of this, and he couldn't blame John, who was right.

Blaming anyone was pointless. He'd hired John and he'd got precisely what he wanted from an army physician. Someone to provide security for Mrs. Hudson and someone to look after Gabriel's health at the moment.

He'd also got more than he'd bargained for – a previously undetected core of steel that refused to be circumvented.

He remembered the expression in John's eyes.

"You _will_ do this."

An instruction, not a suggestion.

He'd been a captain in the army, so he was probably used to having people follow his commands.

Well, Sherlock was the head of an entire criminal organization that he himself had built from the ground up, that he'd managed to maintain and make extraordinarily profitable all the while eluding the police and playing a delicate game with Jim, keeping him in balance, keeping him from becoming too comfortable with Sherlock or from destroying everything altogether, just for the fun of it.

Jim.

Sherlock scowled.

How satisfying would it be to put a bullet in his brain?

He itched to do so, some primal need for vengeance that had nothing to do with the veneer of sophistication that culture had laid down over instinct. Sherlock kept himself calm, breathing quietly, deeply, and narrowed his eyes.

Yes, how satisfying would it be to pull the trigger, to watch the light go from Jim's mad eyes, to see that smirking smile finally erased or at least frozen.

He would have to appreciate the sensation, though, because if he shot Jim, it would be the last thing he ever did.

No matter what kind of professional rapport Sebastian Moran had with Cheryl, he was loyal to Jim Moriarty and Sherlock would never walk away from that kind of encounter. He could put a bullet in Jim's head, but only if he himself had a desire to find out what it felt like.

Jim dying would throw his organization into chaos, Sherlock knew. If Sherlock were to die, Gabriel was already well established to take his place. Sherlock knew this because he had set it up to be so. At twenty-five, Gabriel was far more than ready if necessary. He'd been ready, in Sherlock's opinion, at the age of twenty, should it have come to that. And Sherlock had a small but decent number of what the legal documents called "regional managers" in other European countries who could do the same if Sherlock and Gabriel both died. Because Sherlock had seen the need to find and mould men and women he could truly trust.

But Jim wasn't capable of trusting anyone whatsoever. It was not simply that he was suspicious, it was that he was a psychopath. He had no means for cultivating true trust, just as he had no means for experiencing any real emotion, including basic instinctive reactions – fear, protectiveness, anger. Possibly he could feel hungry and thirsty, but Sherlock was uncertain about that.

_Something to test_, he thought suddenly, a dark gleam of pleasure flashing through him.

Oh, yes.

Jim didn't have to be shot to suffer. He wouldn't succumb to the emotional aspects of captivity – despair, helplessness, desperation, fear – but he might to the physical ones. Hunger, thirst, fatigue.

_Boredom._

Sherlock bit down on a triumphant, feral grin.

That could wait. There were things to do first. Other steps that needed to be taken.

He switched his attention back to the present quickly when Gabriel stirred and he listened, straining to see as much as he could. John had said he'd given Gabriel sedatives but whether Gabriel had taken them was another matter. Could a person have nightmares on sedatives? Sherlock didn't know.

He was about to pull out his phone to look up the answer online when he was given it by example instead. Gabriel's faint movement changed to a sharp hitch in his breathing and a sudden shift in his position that had Sherlock on his feet in an instant because Gabriel was moving his right leg. This made him cry out and snap open his eyes as Sherlock said:

"Wake up!"

There was a moment of disorientation that Sherlock waited out before Gabriel was fully awake and something approaching lucid again. He winced and hissed as he shifted his leg and Sherlock was glad that John had insisted on a new set of x-rays. If Gabriel's breaks had been reinjured, Sherlock was going to find Richard's corpse, dig it up, and shoot it himself.

He was exceedingly displeased with and inconvenienced by having his second-in-command not at his best.

Particularly right now.

Of course, dealing with Jim wouldn't be quite so pressing if Gabriel hadn't been shot in the first place.

"Thought I told you to get out of my flat," Gabriel muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes unseen in the darkness and regained his seat.

"Doctor's orders."

"What?"

"Apparently, you impressed John with your speech about friendship and loyalty and he insisted that I reciprocate this to you and ensure that you don't have nightmares. Well, rather that you are woken up from them so as not to prolong them."

"John Watson told you to keep an eye on me?" Gabriel asked.

"Yes."

"And, just so I'm clear about this, you did what he said?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Obviously."

He thought the hint of amusement that he picked up on suddenly was unwarranted.

"John, eh?" Gabriel asked.

"I'm fairly confident in my ability to distinguish him from Mike, Gabriel. Even if they did attend St. Bart's together. Besides, it was a practical and reasonable suggestion."

"Hmm," Gabriel said noncommittally.

"Don't let me keep you up," Sherlock snapped.

Gabriel sighed and shifted himself to sitting.

"I've been sleeping like mad, Sherlock," he replied. "And I don't want to try and fall asleep with you sitting here staring at me."

"I can barely see you," Sherlock pointed out. "It's dark."

"Yes, but I can tell you're staring at me."

"I will look at the wall, then."

Gabriel sighed, part exasperation, part resignation.

"You're still in my room, watching me sleep. It's a bit creepy, you know."

"For your own comfort and safety," Sherlock quipped.

"I haven't been comfortable since I got shot and I'm safer now than I was yesterday. But I do appreciate the concern. That doesn't mean I want you sitting in my room while I'm sleeping and I'm not feeling particularly like sleeping right now. Not after waking up from a nightmare."

He reached over and flicked on the lamp beside his bed and Sherlock narrowed his eyes against the sudden light. Gabriel snagged his crutches – new crutches, Sherlock noted, which must mean that John had purchased them because it would have been difficult for Gabriel to go out and do so without a pair of crutches.

A tautology, he thought. Gabriel had needed crutches but couldn't buy new crutches without his old crutches.

He made a mental note to thank John Watson for his foresight and consideration.

"You can make yourself useful and make some tea. Although I suppose you'll probably just help yourself to whatever you want."

"That's right," Sherlock replied with a slight smile. Gabriel shot him a glare and got up, gesturing to Sherlock to follow him. The younger man settled himself in the livingroom after turning on a lamp there, sitting on the couch and propping his foot on a cushion that he set on the coffee table.

Sherlock went into the kitchen and made tea, opting against any of Gabriel's scotch. This late in the night – or early in the morning, rather – alcohol was probably not a good idea. And it had been some time since he'd eaten. He did not want to compromise his thought processes by drinking on an empty stomach.

He gave Gabriel his mug and sat down on the couch as well, reminded of the tea he'd had with John Watson the previous morning. John had surprised him yet again by turning what was meant to be an unpleasant visit – unpleasant for John – into something quite constructive. Sherlock had got a new mechanic out of it and had enjoyed quite a good cup of tea and unexpectedly good company.

He had required that John Watson be a competent doctor and soldier.

He had not anticipated him being an interesting person.

How fascinating.

Given the troublesome situation with Jim, this revelation seemed like a well-deserved gift.

"I don't want any lectures or yelling," Gabriel commented, almost lightly, but there was a hint of an edge in his voice.

"Hmm," Sherlock replied, sipping his tea. "Nor do I."

"Good. I'd do it again, you know."

"Yes, I know. As you should."

Gabriel looked over at him in surprise. Sherlock evaluated the expression and his features quickly – he still looked tired, but he looked tired often now. It was irritating and tiresome to have to content with this. He needed Gabriel at his peak right now and Gabriel was nowhere near that. He had been improving, but Sherlock felt the stupidity Richard had displayed would set that back, particularly because of the increased pain in his leg and the possibility that the injury was complicated.

Another thing he'd have to deal with – Henry Hudson's people. Williams was being extradited back to America and would probably face the death penalty but apparently in New York state rather than Florida.

This did not change the fact that Hudson had sent someone after his ex-wife and had managed to injure Gabriel in the process, thereby threatening Sherlock's operations.

But also bringing John Watson into Sherlock's employ, which was beneficial. If Gabriel had to be shot, at least it had resulted in Sherlock getting a full-time doctor and surgeon. Sometimes events worked out in strangely fortuitous ways.

"I've tidied up the things Cheryl could not," Sherlock commented. "But if the police come sniffing around, you will tell me."

"Of course I will."

"They've been too much of a nuisance. That blasted Lestrade seems intelligent. Donovan, too. Never a good trait in a police officer."

Gabriel gave a quiet chuckle and half smile.

"However, intelligence cannot be denied and can be put to good use."

Gabriel looked over at him, arching an eyebrow.

"Are you considering hiring them, too?"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "I do not want to contemplate how to approach them – neither of them is corrupt and I can only imagine how well such overtures would play out. No, they are best where they are – well, they'd be better if they had not become police officers because then they would be less of a problem. But they _are_ officers and can be used in their current positions as well."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock repressed a scowl – Gabriel not on sedatives and painkillers and muscle relaxants wouldn't have had to ask.

"Sorry," the younger man said at Sherlock's expression.

"It is not you," Sherlock said, then sighed. "That's rather the point. It's _not_ you. How long before you can stop taking these blasted medications?"

"Depends on if it's worse for me having walked on it. The painkillers I have run out next week. But you'd have to ask John."

"I will," Sherlock said darkly and thought it was entirely inappropriate that Gabriel gave him a small, knowing smile.

"You have other people," Gabriel pointed out. "Charles, Mycroft."

"Hah," Sherlock said, not quite under his breath. "Mycroft indeed."

"Tell me what you're thinking," Gabriel sighed. "Humour my drugged-up brain."

"We're going to bring him down," Sherlock said. "One little piece at a time. Killing him would be at once too easy and complicated. No, Gabriel, if he wants us to play, then play we shall. But by _my_ rules. Everything he's so carefully crafted, we are going to weaken it, dissolve it, then remove it altogether. I've had enough. He is right that I don't trust him – less so now that he thought it a good idea to have Richard corner you in a cab. If he wants to have fun, then I will. My way."

Gabriel didn't protest or look alarmed or try to convince Sherlock this was a mistake. No misplaced moralizing from the man who'd had his brother killed – Sherlock was pleased but not at all surprised. He didn't need people who became uneasy at the prospect of doing the job. Gabriel would see it through no matter where it led.

And Cheryl and Charles, yes, and Sherlock made a note to have him come in from France, as well as some of the others on the continent. This required more than just the two of them.

Jim wanted to play? He wanted to have fun?

_Then let him learn_, Sherlock thought. _Oh yes, let him learn._

"Details," Gabriel said.

"Gladly," Sherlock replied. He set his tea down on the coffee table – feeling better for being able to talk to his second about this, because that was Gabriel's job, to understand and support and enhance his decisions – and began to outline his plans.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Just to clarify, the Charles who was in this story earlier is not Charles Chauvière. I know it's confusing because it's the same name, but one is pronounced the English way, the other the French way. Speaking of Charles Chauvière, check out my new profile picture, which is totally him as a young man. Yay!


	24. Chapter 24

Sally Donovan raised her head blearily from her pillow when her phone buzzed shortly after four-thirty in the morning. She squinted at it, hoping she was wrong or just dreaming, but it was lit up and rattling gently from the vibration on the bedside table.

With a sigh that was more of a groan she reached for it, wrapping her fingers around it and holding it up to see the number. Hopefully it wasn't Lestrade with more case stuff, another of those serial suicides or something. It was supposed to be her day off today. She was supposed to be able to sleep in.

Waking up at four thirty-seven did not qualify as sleeping in.

But the number didn't have a name associated with it, so it wasn't one that she had programmed into her phone.

"God," Sally muttered. A bloody wrong number? At this hour? Or some stranger who had her number who thought it was all right to ring her? Well, she was a police sergeant. Anyone who had her card might call her and truly need her.

She just hoped it wasn't that irritating Crown Prosecutor – what was his name? Anderson – something Anderson. Keith – no, Kevin, Kevin Anderson, that was it.

The man was a creep.

She'd seen him eyeing her up even though he was clearly married. That ring wasn't for show. What was it with married men that they assumed she'd be interested in them? So what if she was single, it wasn't as if she were dying to meet someone so badly she'd fall into bed with the first man who looked her way. She was a police sergeant. She'd cultivated at least a little well-earned self-respect. She was a good cop and a good person and deserved better than the likes of him.

Plus he was just kind of ferret-y looking.

The thought made Sally smile even in the early morning darkness.

The call wasn't a call but a text message. Sally frowned again, unlocking her phone and reading it.

_Coercion does not equal consent. Suicide under duress is murder. Check the movements of all the victims; they all travelled the same way in the end._

Sally sat up fast.

"What?" she said, rereading the message quickly.

The fatigue fell away from her brain and she was completely awake in an instant – she had more than enough years on the force to have mastered that skill. Without thinking, she hit the reply button.

_Who is this?_

The reply that came back startled her solely because she hadn't been expecting one, not really.

_An interested party._

Sally stared at the text, then shook her head, fighting the urge to text again, to demand more answers. Someone who provided information like this didn't want to be identified. Well that was too bad for him or her, because Sally wasn't a cop without good reason.

She called up her contacts and rang Metcall. She gave her name and badge number and had them run the number.

She wasn't in the least bit surprised when it came back as a prepaid mobile number and was therefore untraceable. With a sigh, she thanked the constable who'd given her the information and rung off, staring at her phone's screen for a moment.

Sally called up the first message again and reread it a third time.

It wasn't as though they hadn't suspected these were murders. Four victims all dying of the same uncommon poison taken in the same form raised more than a few red flags. But they'd all been found alone, abandoned, with no indications that anyone else had been there.

But no indications they'd be likely to commit suicide, either.

Someone was playing a dangerous game and people were starting to panic. The press conference had been a singularly bad idea in her opinion but they'd had no other options that point. Lestrade had been desperately hoping that someone would call with some tip that would break the case wide open. Or at least give them some starting point.

She knew this because she'd been hoping for the same.

But there had been nothing, no, and no more activity from the killer – although that probably wasn't because he was impressed with the Met's ability to find him. Since they didn't seem to have that.

Nothing until now, with this anonymous message.

_Dammit_, she thought.

Someone wanted them to find the killer but didn't want them to find him.

Well, Sally was no stranger to that. A lot of people wanted to help the police without coming to the attention of the police themselves.

It didn't make things easy, however.

She rung Lestrade's number, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the chilly air in her room.

"This better be important," her boss grumbled on the other end of the line, as if Sally had a tendency to call him up in the middle of the night to discuss trivial things, like the weather or what had been on the telly the night before.

"I might have a lead on the suicides," she replied bluntly.

There was a shocked pause on the other end of the line, but Lestrade was an old hand at being a detective and had been a DI for almost five years now.

"Meet me at the Yard in an hour," he said. "I'll call the others."

* * *

><p>Everything was tedious lately, so much to do, so much to sort out but nothing interesting, nothing that wasn't a chore, nothing that was exciting or engaging or which even held the <em>promise<em> of novelty. Do this, do that, fix this, take care of that, all the same, all the time, and the people_,_ good Lord, the _people_, no better than sheep, never using their brains. Yes, yes, yes, of course, whatever you want, it will be done by tomorrow. No challenge, not even a _chance _of defiance it seemed – what was so wrong with this city? Something in the water?

If only people would _think._

It was always the same, wasn't it? The heartbeat of one day pulsing slowly into the next and the next and the next, never changing. The city, moving through its routines like a sleeping giant, never fully _aware_ of anything, never opening its eyes and _seeing_.

So much to do, all of it small annoyances. Debts, movements, thefts, accounts, new people, old people, the brother.

Ha, yes, the brother.

Stupid.

Loose ends to tie up, always left dangling where the police might catch them, batting at them like mad little kittens, distracted by whatever new little thread was being held above their heads. Jumping, scrambling, fumbling and falling all over each other, tracking down criminals but always a step, two, five, ten, a kilometre behind. Hindered by their own laws, waiting for people to agree that the law applied to them.

Better to be outside of it, so far away it was like looking at the Earth from the Moon, untouchable, yes. Nothing could make it all the way up here, so far removed, so insulated that it was sometimes _suffocating_ and wouldn't it be nice – so nice! – to be a street level again, to feel the energy, to feel the panic, to feel the desire? To see the faces, to evaluate, judge, determine, _deduce_, oh yes. To _deduce_.

Who wants what? Who's done what? That man cheating on his wife, has a mistress who will blackmail him and he will need the problem solved. That woman stealing from her employer who will need a debt erased, digging herself in further. That businessman who makes frequent trips, his face unremarkable – so unremarkable, how odd would that be, to pass through a crowd unseen? – that he longs for some indication, some hint that he is special. That undercover police officer who loathes the job, wants more, wants the _rewards_ not the tedium and indignity.

All of it. Needs to be dealt with. All of the time. But it had become so much, hadn't it?

The competition, smug, unreadable, _dangerous_. Oh yes, dangerous. Smart suits, posh accents, loyal henchmen, mad intelligence, loyalties that couldn't be broken, lethal gunmen, all of it. Moving so smoothly and easily, disrupting the _balance_, as though they were important or mattered or should be allowed to exist.

All white skin and angles and dark hair and curls and grey eyes and such _beauty_ that was unrecognized, unknown, such a shame, really, those Greek statue features always so _angry_ – never had any fun, none at all, always so serious, displeased, pinched. Ruined one day if he kept it up.

Moving with catlike grace, upper class assurance, such _poise_, so hard to replicate no matter what, much be genetic, hereditary, inborn. Not learned, always known. Grey suits in a world of black, purple shirts in a pallid sea of white, colour where colour wasn't _right_, wasn't _wanted_, all contrast, no middles, just _pale_ or _dark_ with such strong delineations, illumination in the shadows or shadows in the light. Couldn't say, not really.

Washed out eyes that somehow always _sparked_ with clarity if not colour, so much behind them, oh yes. Intelligence – no. _Genius_. The other side, the only one. No disappointment there, only challenge, real challenge, but a game that _wouldn't _be played because he always stepped back – so, yes, disappointment. Wrong, being wrong, it was terrible. There'd been so much promise that first meeting, when? Eleven years ago. So long. Over a decade. But then nothing.

Movement in the shadows, through the shadows, a careful step away, keeping each other at arm's reach.

_Safety_.

But _he_ cared. Such a stupid thing, trust. Deserved? Never. How could it be? It meant vulnerability. He could see it. Light in the eyes, swirl of the coat.

Gun pressed to the temple.

He laughed.

"Hello, Sherlock! Really, any way to greet an old friend who's done you a favour?"

"Give me one good reason not to kill you for your stupidity, James."

Oh, not James, how many times did he have to say it? James, James, James. James at the piano, practicing scales. _Bored. _James at the mother's aunt's, listening to stories that probably never happened. _Bored. _James in the classroom desk chair, slouched, arms crossed. _Bored._

Covered in blood, his parents' blood, laughing because they'd finally _understood_ then, not just missing kittens and puppies in the neighbourhood, not that stupid boy up the street who'd never talk again, water in the lungs will do that. _Not bored._

Sherlock? _Boring._ What to do, what to do? That new boy, he'd done nothing. Could see that on Sherlock's face, oh yes. No more fun, no more play, no more relaxation. The new boy, John Watson. Johnny Boy. A song? No, Danny Boy. He hummed a bar to himself, Johnny fit just fine, right amount of syllables, right tone, right character.

Johnny Boy, oh yes. Soldier boy, so clean, so precise, so new, so different. Not the Frenchman, not the puppy, not the girl with the gun. Not the others, polished, educated – educated accents, not all educated – but university? Who cared? The streets were a better teacher, harsher, more judgemental, always _right_. No, no, this Johnny Boy, so much a soldier, so solid, so much a doctor, so compassionate.

But not the new boy now. The old new boy. There was a new new boy. So many pets! So many possibilities!

He smiled.

"Gun down, Sherlock."

"I should shoot you right now." Hissed, but a lie. He wouldn't. Sebastian in the shadows and the girl with the gun would hunt Sebastian down, oh yes, kill the man who killed the man who hired her, who saved her, who made her someone _special_.

"Weren't you _lis-tening?_" a singsong emphasis on that. Sherlock always listened! Had he forgot? Did he forget? Was anything erased from that impressive brain? Impressive brain housed in such an impressive casing and he did nothing with it.

"I _said_, if someone had killed your puppy, you'd be very cross."

"I'm cross now, Jim."

"Him? He was a throw away, waste of space, nothing! Your girl with the gun got it right. Right in the abdomen because _she_ knows like Sebastian knows. Do you imagine him dying? I do. Where is he, Sherlock?"

"I don't know."

Truth. Real truth, from Sherlock Holmes. Not dressed up truth, false truth, masked truth.

"Sebastian?"

Silence from his man but it didn't matter. Who cared where a feral animal died? The streets were teeming with them, feral humans, begging for a morsel, for a chance to redeem themselves, as though redemption was possible.

As though they could understand this level, let alone attain it.

The grey eyes of a genius. And what did Sherlock see?

Madness, surely.

But what was sanity in the face of genius itself? Why did Sherlock hold onto it? Why not let go?

It was _liberating._

The whole world, just there for the taking. And no one could see it. Even Sherlock. Held himself back from the edge, followed the _rules._

Some rules, anyway.

Kept him predictable. Kept him dull. Kept him _boring._

_Must check with the old new boy. Such a spark there._

"Your puppy's _safe_, Sherlock. Told you I did favours."

"You can't have him."

The gun was gone but the look was harder. He hated that nickname didn't he? And the puppy – the puppy didn't care, no. Not about the name. About the brother he did. Or had. So complicated. So tedious.

"You have all the good ones." Pouting. It wasn't true, though. But pouting was _fun_. For a minute.

Dark eyebrow twitched up.

"I find them first. And I don't terrorize them."

"Oh, give them a _chance_, teach them the trade, see their _potential_, blah blah blah. A bit sanctimonious for you, isn't it, Sherlock? What about Johnny Boy's sister? In rehab yet? Are you paying for that? And hiring his mate? Ooh, keeping it in the family. A sister, a brother-in-arms. So quaint, isn't it? So touching."

A smile on those lush lips, a cold one.

"Jealous, James?"

"Ha! Keep them, Sherlock. Keep them. It doesn't change you. You can add all of the accessories you want. It's not _you_. You need to come out and play."

"No playing, Jim," Sherlock said, voice flat, smile gone. "This is business."

"A game, one game!" Oh no, he wasn't begging. He was wheedling, teasing. But one game, _one game_. To offset the boredom. Gasping, gaping boredom. So much interference lately, so much need for caution.

The police with the suicides, the police with Williams, the police with their stupid sirens and badges and self-righteous nonsense. Keeping everyone in line without understanding that they were themselves in a tight little cage.

And he was on the outside.

He and Sherlock.

Like referees who saw the whole game.

Time to make the game _theirs_.

But he wouldn't play, would he? Would old new boy make him? Would Johnny Boy be boring? Would Sherlock even notice the neat little doctor? He'd noticed the Frenchman, the singer, the girl with the gun, the puppy.

Not Jim.

Jim had been there before him. At the same time as him. Hard to tell. Doing the same thing, hurtling toward the same goal independent of one another.

They should have been _marvellous_ together.

But Sherlock had his own ideas. Had always had his own ideas. Had no sense of the game. Or the potential.

Of the rewards.

The whole world, at their feet.

But he stepped away, every single time.

_Boring, boring, __**boring**__!_

"I told you once. Stay away from what's mine."

This made him grin. Threats! A bit of polish worn off the shiny Holmes exterior.

"Or what, Sherlock?"

The dark eyebrows twitching upward again.

"Just stay away."

_So_ disappointing. No real threat, no shooting, not him, not Sebastian. He wanted to offer his wallet – a mugging at least. _Something_.

But a swirl of the coat, the gun long since vanished, Sherlock striding toward the door, pausing to look back, one gloved hand wrapped around the deep, polished oak with its intricate carvings, inlaid patterns.

"It's business, Jim. Remember that."

Jim wrinkled his nose at the door when Sherlock was gone.

Business?

Everything was so tedious lately, such a chore. Even Sherlock. There had been such promise there, once. Such a novelty. When he'd been a new man on the scene, coming to Jim's attention, all mystery and contrast and angles and beauty and _potential_ that had never quite been fulfilled, no.

Never let go.

Boring.

Jim flung himself into his chair. Sebastian raised an eyebrow questioningly from the shadows. He was barely able to wave a hand. So disappointing. Not even enough passion for vengeance against the man who'd hired the puppy's brother and let that rabid dog loose.

Well at least the girl with the gun showed spunk.

"Leave it."

He fished for the remote control and then threw it at the screen when the telly was no more interesting than Sherlock.


	25. Chapter 25

John was pleased with the new x-rays – both the speed at which they'd been delivered by the medical courier and the results – but he was beginning to be displeased with other things.

It was time, he decided, to really start asserting his authority as a doctor.

After all, that's why Holmes had hired him.

That's why he had Holmes there now. His presence was always somewhat distracting given that he was constantly looking offended at the fact that his young business partner or employee or whatever was injured and this translated to some mild huffiness that John wasn't miraculously speeding up Gabriel's recovery.

Well, he'd have to wait.

So he'd better just get used to it.

"The x-rays are fine," John said. He'd brought them with him, the new set and the most recent one before that, and Holmes gestured for the envelope, which John passed off. He was impressed when Holmes held the prints up to the window to catch the light from outside. He hadn't supposed Holmes would know what to do with an x-ray, but he realised he should probably not have jumped to that conclusion.

Whether or not he could read it as accurately as John could was another matter, and John suspected not, but that he was no amateur at it, either.

"Let me see the leg, though," John said, sitting on the edge of Gabriel's bed. The younger man nodded and hiked up his trouser leg – he was wearing suit trousers and John considered this a problem – and unstrapped the cast. John snapped on a pair of gloves and examined the injury carefully, taking the opportunity to change the bandage and clean the healing wound. The stitches looked good and the bruises were fading, but the swelling was worse than it should be.

"Right," he said, reaching for the small medical kit he now carried with him – he thought about getting one of those black leather bags doctors used to use for house calls and resolved to see if he could buy one online. In the meantime, a new overnight bag served.

He rebandaged the wound and took out some chemical ice packs, snapping them to activate them.

"Here, hold these," he said to Gabriel, pressing them against the younger man's leg, noticing the wince as he did so, probably from both the pressure and the cold. Gabriel did as ordered and John secured them carefully with an elastic bandage. It was inelegant but it worked. He put a couple more on and Gabriel held them as John strapped them in.

"I want you to do this three times a day, keep them on until they go warm. I know it's uncomfortable. I also filled prescriptions for you for anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants."

He pulled out the small prescription bottles and Gabriel took them with a displeased look on his face. There were already several bottles adorning his nightstand – painkillers and antibiotics, which he should have been coming off of fairly soon but which would now have to be refilled, John thought – and sedatives to be taken at night.

John did sympathise, because it looked a lot like his bedside table had looked after he'd been moved from the hospital ward to that horrible halfway house flat. As annoying as it was, he also knew the need for it. He understood it from both sides, but he wasn't being paid to commiserate as a patient.

"How am I supposed to think on all of these?" Gabriel sighed.

"You're not," John said flatly.

At this, Holmes lowered the x-rays he was looking at and gave John a cautious and suspicious frown.

"How much do you work right now?" John asked. "On a daily basis."

"Ah –" Gabriel's eyes slid away as he thought. "Depends on how much has to be done, what Sherlock needs. Three to six hours, I suppose."

"Right, here's the new plan. Zero."

"What?" Gabriel and Holmes asked at the same time. John looked away from his patient to his boss.

"Three weeks, no work. _At least_ three weeks. I'll re-evaluate then."

"I need him!" Holmes snapped.

"What am I supposed to do?" Gabriel demanded at the same time.

"You," John said, returning his gaze to the younger man, "Will rest and recover. That's what you'll do. And you, M – Sherlock, which would you rather? Three weeks now or more time later? Because if he doesn't do this, recovery is going to take significantly longer."

Both other men stared at him and John stared back at his boss, knowing that he had to get Sherlock to agree for Gabriel to do so.

"This is not a good time," Sherlock said coolly.

"Of course it's not, it never is," John agreed. "But it's medically necessary. I _am_ your doctor. Three weeks. Then we'll see."

Sherlock and Gabriel exchanged a glance and John was quick enough to catch both expressions – a silent plea to do something on Gabriel's part, a firm refusal on Sherlock's.

Good.

The man had a bit more sense than those pale work-of-art features suggested.

"Very well," Sherlock agreed, his voice still cool, but he handed back the x-rays, which John returned to their envelope. "Three weeks, Doctor."

"Right," John said, nodding. "Now, I need to talk to my patient alone, please."

Sherlock hesitated only the barest of moments, so briefly that John wouldn't have noted it if he hadn't been watching for it, but he was uncertain as to the cause. Did Sherlock just not want to be left in the dark in regards to information or was he reluctant to leave his recently injured – and re-injured – friend?

Hard to say.

But he left with a nod, clicking the bedroom door shut behind him. John gave it a few more seconds, then crossed his arms, turning back to Gabriel who was glaring at him. Well, John was a former army captain. He'd seen that look tried on him by more than one young man or woman, injured or not.

"Three weeks, at least," he repeated.

"But why?" Gabriel asked. "It's not as though I'm running around on it."

"Well you had to walk on it, which was bad enough," John said, disliking having to say it, because it caused a wince that wasn't pain. "But it doesn't matter about the weight, except that we need to get that swelling back down. You look almost as tired as you did the day I met you, and you shouldn't, not by now. You're not taking care of yourself because you want to work and Sherlock wants you to work, so everything lines up nicely, except that you're not giving your body the chance to recover properly."

Gabriel sighed and pursed his lips in displeasure – John understood, he really did. There was very little worse than forced immobility, particularly when one was used to being active and busy. It was compounded by the fact that Gabriel was only twenty-five – more energy, less patience.

"What am I supposed to do?" Gabriel asked. His tone was reasonable, not wheedling, and John got the impression he really didn't know.

"Watch telly, read, _sleep_, do crosswords, Sudoku, anything like that. Have friends visit."

At this last, Gabriel's expression lit up a bit.

"I can have company?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," John said. "In fact, you should. You can even have Sherlock visit if he promises not to make you talk about work." _Too much_, John added privately, because he doubted there was any real chance of not having Sherlock ask his business partner for ideas and opinions – and John didn't want Gabriel's mind to atrophy. He just didn't want the younger man actually and actively working.

Gabriel smiled and there was an element of thoughtfulness there.

It took John only a second to place it.

"Absolutely no weight on the leg. Anyone's. I mean it."

Gabriel laughed, shaking his head.

"I promise."

John gave him a glare.

"She's a nurse. I told you I knew someone from St. Mary's."

John relaxed his stance a bit.

"Good," he said. It meant two things: she'd be more likely to understand the nature of the injury and she'd know her way around it.

"Ice packs, three times a day. I'll go out and buy some, make sure you're stocked. How did you sleep last night?"

"All right. A nightmare, but I'm okay."

John didn't fully buy that, but let it slide with only another glare. He'd keep checking on it, but a nightmare now wasn't surprising.

"Anti-inflammatories twice a day until the prescription's run out, muscle relaxants before you go to bed at night. I don't want the spasms getting worse with the swelling. Understand?"

Gabriel nodded, looking slightly displeased again and John saw the prospect of boredom looming in his eyes.

"I'll renew your painkillers and antibiotics for one more round," John continued, packing up his bag. "And I will be back tomorrow to check on you. I'll make sure I call first."

He paused, then gave the younger man a smile.

"A nurse would be very good company right now," he suggested.

Gabriel grinned.

"Doctor's orders?"

"Doctor's advice," John replied.

"I'll take it under consideration."

"Sleeping and eating three meals a day, too. Order it all in if you have to. I'd rather not have you standing to cook – and I do know how hard it is on only one good leg, you know."

Gabriel nodded again and John reopened his bag and jotted down all of these instructions on the back of a prescription form before handing it to Gabriel. Given how tired the younger man really did look, he didn't want to trust this all to memory.

"In fact, sleep now would be ideal," John said.

"I'll see what I can do," Gabriel sighed.

"Good. See you tomorrow. Want me to close these curtains?"

Gabriel gave him a rueful look and nodded. John pulled the curtains closed and picked up his bag and the envelope containing the x-rays and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

Not surprisingly, Sherlock was sitting in Gabriel's living room, waiting for him.

"Come with me," John said. He needed to clarify some of those medical instructions for Sherlock, but not here where the noise might disturb his patient. Sherlock gave him an impatient sigh and cocked an eyebrow with a maddeningly unreadable expression, but rose and joined him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched John Watson leave his flat, heading for the lift, and wondered briefly at the ease and surety with which a man that height could move. Of course, most of it was the army training that had instilled a good deal of confidence. His injury and subsequent discharge from military service had shaken that confidence, but it was returning now.<p>

In spades.

For the second day in a row, Sherlock found himself acquiescing to his doctor's advice and instructions, even though these displeased him.

He noted that John moved without any indication of a limp much more often now – it seemed to plague him only when he was tired or if he thought about it. That was a good sign, at least. Sherlock suspected that shoulder wound would always give him trouble, but one needn't put weight on one's shoulder, so it was probably much easier to contend with.

He shut and relocked his door, reset his security system, then stood in the entry corridor, caught in a moment of completely unaccustomed indecision.

There was work to be done now that Jim needed to be dealt with. It did not sit well with him that one of the people closest to him had been temporarily removed. Well, John hadn't said Sherlock couldn't talk to Gabriel – in fact, he'd encouraged social interaction, claiming it was good for the spirit when one was recovering. But it was not the same.

Jim wanted a game.

He had some fascination for what he considered playing with Sherlock, which Sherlock had never fully understood. He knew this was because he himself was not mad and he did not see this world as a game but as a very delicate system that needed to be balanced and maintained and cared for. One misstep could be the start of a very short road that led to either death or the police hounding him for the rest of his life.

He fully intended to live a very long time and without constant harassment.

One of the problems with Jim – one of the many – was that he did not particularly value the quality of his life. Oh, he'd fight to keep himself alive, and he'd search desperately for some means to alleviate his boredom, but he did not care what shape that relief took.

_That's fortunate_, Sherlock thought. He thought perhaps Jim might learn something about taking care for what he wished.

In the end.

Maybe.

Jim was also well guarded, as was Sherlock, of course, and well guarded meant that Sherlock could not accomplish all of this on his own. This was not defeating or humbling, it was simply the truth. No more could Jim actually get to Sherlock and bring him down without quite a lot of assistance.

Jim, however, wouldn't think to ask or even command it.

He'd see it as showing weakness.

Sherlock saw it as appropriate strategy.

The more responsibility he spread over his vast network, the harder it would be to trace back to him. This left him relatively untouched while Jim's foundations would begin to crumble.

They already had.

He remembered Jim nearly begging him for one game, having no idea that the opening moved had been played. In the dark, with a prepaid cell phone, accomplished by a short text message to a woman who seemed to be a very bright police sergeant indeed.

If Sherlock was right about Sergeant Donovan and DI Lestrade – and he was certain he was, because he was almost always right about people – then they would catch the cabbie who was behind these faked suicides.

And Jim would see the police making a little dent in that impenetrable armour.

A single move.

There would be more.

Sherlock considered going in to his office but he need not do so now. He had his phone, which was all he really required at the moment.

There were a number of people spread across the British Isles and the European continent whom he needed here at the moment. They were his lieutenants and they therefore needed to know what he was planning – in order to stay one step ahead of Jim's people and in order to assist.

He rang a number while going into his living room. A moment later, a smooth and familiar voice answered in French.

"Yes, hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled slightly. There was still a subtle emphasis on his name, the "o" slightly more drawn out than it should be.

"Charles," he replied, rolling the "r" at the back of his throat, delighting in the sensation. The French knew how to make their language itself feel and sound suggestive. Sherlock had always enjoyed that. He particularly enjoyed listening to Charles because of it. "How soon can you be in London?"

There was a brief hesitation on the other end of the line, both mild surprise and quick calculation.

"Four weeks," Charles replied. To his credit, he did not ask why, not over the phone. "There's work that needs to be completed here, unless you want it to fall through."

"No, of course not," Sherlock said smoothly, but scowling privately to himself. Four weeks? He'd lost Gabriel for at least three and could not have Charles for four. This was displeasing all around.

"But I have further work for you in the meantime. I will send detailed instructions but you'll be making two trips, one to Lyon, one to Champagne."

There was a soft snort on the other end – the trip to Champagne was not at all for business and Charles knew it. But if he was coming to London, Sherlock was not going to pass up to the opportunity to have his French lieutenant purchase some champagne from Sherlock's favourite vineyard, which was small and exclusive and did not sell outside of its home country.

"What's in Lyon?" Charles asked and Sherlock refocused on the familiar tenor. Somehow, even when discussing business, Charles could make it sound like the possibility of other things.

"There is a woman there to whom I would like you to pass on some information." He grinned to himself. "I rather think you'll like her, actually."

Charles made no comment, but Sherlock could picture him raising an eyebrow quite clearly.

"Wait for instructions tomorrow," Sherlock said.

"I will," Charles replied.

"Four weeks. As soon as you're finished there, you're coming here."

"Understood."

"Good-night, Charles."

"Good-night, Sherlock," Charles replied and Sherlock rung off, gazing at his phone for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet and went into his home office to collect the information he would need Charles to pass onto Agent Veronique St. Jean.


	26. Chapter 26

On the thirteenth of February, John woke up to the grinning face of his temporary flatmate. He blinked and half sat up and Jamie's grin widened as he held up a notepad across which the words "happy birthday!" had been scrawled.

John groaned, pressing hand over his eyes.

"Don't remind me," he muttered, trying to shake the sleep from his brain. Jamie pulled the pad away and wrote something else on it.

'38', John read.

"Yes, I know, I know. Lord, creeping up on forty."

Jamie gestured to John and then himself and grinned again – that was true; he was a year and four days behind John.

John groaned again and sat up and Jamie gestured for him to get up before striding from John's room, closing the door behind him. John just smiled and shook his head – if it had been anyone else, anyone who hadn't been in his unit in Afghanistan, this would have seemed like an invasion of his space.

He had been surprised how easy it was to get used to living with a former army mate again. He and Jamie hadn't been bunkmates, but they had been good friends almost from the beginning. Now it was an easy pattern to fall into since they had lived in fairly close quarters. John had initially worried he'd want his space but since Jamie worked regular hours and started fairly early in the morning and John was just really at Sherlock's beck and call, he got enough time of his own.

Jamie was a good flatmate; he tidied any small messes he made, kept up with his share of cleaning even though it had only been a few days, split the cooking and the shopping and kept his activities like the telly or music limited to reasonable volumes and hours. The army had trained them both well.

And they'd have their own flats again soon enough. John supposed being a crime boss probably had its perks – a lot of them, if he was any judge – because there had already been contractors down in the C flat to evaluate how much renovation work needed to be done and give estimates on time and cost. It seemed that about a month's worth of work was needed and John was happy with that assessment.

He changed into jeans, a dark red jumper and socks, since it was mid-February and the building was old enough that drafts worked their way through the floorboards no matter what. John padded into the kitchen where Jamie had made them both tea, dividing the pot in equal halves into their regimental mugs. John laughed and Jamie grinned, lifting his mug. John returned the gesture.

"You didn't spike it, did you?" he asked.

Jamie only rolled his eyes.

"Only checking."

He sipped the tea and didn't notice any hint of alcohol but wouldn't put it past his friend to use a liberal dose of that horrible gin as a joke. He sat down at the kitchen table when Jamie waved him into a chair with a scowl. John had attempted to get some food down for breakfast but was apparently being treated to a proper Scottish breakfast on his birthday.

Well, he had no complaints about that. He sat and sipped his tea, suddenly grateful that he wasn't spending a birthday in the halfway house and that he was with an old friend. The only thing that would have made this more complete was Tricia's presence, but he knew she was unlikely to be able to ring that day. She'd talked to him a few days ago to get his help on Jamie's birthday gift.

Which probably meant she'd spoken to Jamie online to enlist him to purchase John's.

He wondered what it was, but knew better than to ask. Last year, it had been a two-day leave for the three of them that Tricia had somehow negotiated with their CO. He'd never worked out how she'd managed to get all three of them two days off at once but it had been a brilliant time, even if they hadn't gone anywhere. Having a day off after getting roaring drunk on that terrible gin had been welcome. John had been extraordinarily hung over and it had been well worth it.

Again, he felt a stab of sadness that she wasn't there but set that aside, refusing to let it colour his day. He had no specific plans but was going to his mother's the following day for dinner and Meredith had invited Jamie as well, whom she had not yet met. It was hard for her to get around with a bad hip and arthritis in her back and John worried but she always dismissed his concerns. It had been difficult for her to travel to see him, though, and he'd always saved up his meagre pension earnings for a trip every other week or so. John wasn't certain if Harry was coming – it was even odds, he thought. She knew what he was doing for her, but on the other hand, they were speaking more now and she seemed to be genuinely putting effort into recovery. He'd be happy to see her.

He was dislodged from his musings when Jamie passed him a plate of mouth watering fried food. John tucked in and it was even better than it smelled.

"Where did you learn to cook?" he asked.

Jamie rolled his eyes and made a gesture for John to wait and fetched both of their laptops.

_It's frying eggs, sausage and tomatoes. It's not hard. But mum always worked early mornings and I'm older than Ellie so I took care of it._

They finished their meals and Jamie rose, gesturing for John to wait, so the doctor did the washing up while his flatmate vanished for a few minutes, returning with a fairly large, expertly wrapped box. He deposited it on the table, matching John's raised eyebrow with one of his own.

_From me and Tee_, he sent via the chat programme.

"I thought so," John said. Jamie gestured at it and John suspected it had been wrapped in a shop or purchased online and gift wrapped before being posted, because it was almost a surgical job. The thought made him grin, but he doubted Tricia had put her skills to mere wrapping and sent it all the way from Afghanistan.

So he tackled it with a surgeon's care and Jamie rolled his eyes impatiently, making a circular gesture with his right hand, drumming his left fingers on the back of one of the chairs.

John managed to free the box, open it up and stopped short, staring. He kept his eyes on it for a moment, then looked up at Jamie, who was grinning.

"Happy birthday," his friend mouthed.

It was an old fashioned black leather medical bag, the kind he'd been thinking of getting. But that wasn't all. It was a modern replica of the entire thing – the bag and all of the medical equipment. Not an antique, no, because the tools inside were all brand new and obviously expensive. He'd only made some passing comment to Tricia about it.

He took out the stethoscope carefully, holding it lightly in both hands, staring at it in shock.

"Jamie, this is brilliant," he said. "Thank you."

Jamie sat down in front of his laptop again.

_Tee found it. Should suit your new life as a private doctor._

"I'll say," John replied shaking his head with a grin.

_That overnight bag you were using was rubbish_.

John rolled his eyes.

"Oh yes, thanks," he said with a chuckle. He examined the rest of the contents, noting the bag had small pockets for more modern supplies such as plasters and heat and cold packs and the like. He grinned at it again, taking everything out carefully and laying it around the bag and Jamie shot him a questioning look. John pulled out his phone and took several snapshots – it wasn't the greatest of cameras but he wasn't the greatest of photographers either, and it would do. He emailed them to himself and then put everything back in the bag.

John took the bag into the living room and found it a good spot by the door, then made a short blog post, including the pictures with it. Jamie rolled his eyes at him but John could see he was pleased that he and Tricia had done well. He'd definitely have to remember to thank her when they next spoke. She'd said she'd try calling on Jamie's birthday – this was often how it was and John tried not to hate it, because it was just a reality, but she often had to combine conversations with the two of them for lack of time.

He deliberately did not let himself think about her tour ending, because it was easier. And she'd have given him hell if she'd known he was thinking depressing thoughts on his birthday.

He'd just finished blogging when his phone beeped and he picked it up, hoping it wasn't Sherlock with work for him. But it was a text message from Tricia wishing him a happy birthday and John grinned, sending back a quick thank you. Chances were good that was all she had time for but he was happy to have it.

Jamie asked him something then and John frowned, shaking his head.

"Sorry, didn't get that."

_Plans?_

"Yes, being lazy," John replied.

_Good plan._

They watched crap telly and stupid movies and laughed. Jamie's laughter was silent now, which was odd to see and not to hear. John checked on Mrs. Hudson a couple of times and she assured him she was fine and didn't need anything. She'd settled easily back into her home and, much to John's relief, did not seem too shaken by what had happened. He knew the presence of two military men – and their guns – helped. He'd rather fallen in love with her, he thought, and suspected Jamie had too.

Given that she had charmed two career criminals, this wasn't entirely surprising.

Early that afternoon, while Jamie was trying to convince John that haggis would be a good lunch follow-up to the Scottish breakfast and John was making faces, his phone rang and he pulled it out, holding up a hand to his friend to ineffectively – or effectively – silence him. It wasn't a number he recognised, so hopefully it wasn't work or something serious.

"Yes, John Watson," he said.

"Doctor Watson, this is the Dorchester Hotel calling to confirm your reservation at the Alain Ducasse this evening at seven pm."

John hesitated.

"Sorry?" he asked, gesturing for Jamie to pass him his laptop and the other man did so quickly. John flipped it open and searched for the hotel. Of course he knew of it, but he also knew he didn't make a reservation there.

"Your reservation for two tonight. Yourself and Harriet Watson."

He blinked in surprise that was augmented by the fact that he'd just pulled up the restaurant's page on the hotel website and to say it looked swanky was a bit of an understatement.

Harry couldn't afford that. John knew she couldn't. He probably could now, but he hadn't intended to.

"I didn't make a reservation," he said.

"No, sir, it was made for you. The bill has been settled in advance and we have instructions that no alcohol is to be served but anything else is to be provided upon your request."

John pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it, then put it back.

"Who made the reservation?" John demanded.

"I'm afraid I don't know, sir," the smooth, richly accented voice on the other end of the line said. It was an accent that John associated with a lot of money and a very good education.

He opened his mouth to say something, then realised he had nothing to say.

"Seven pm?" he asked instead, knowing full well that was what had been said.

"Yes, sir."

John chewed his lower lip, returning Jamie's questioning look without any answers.

"All right," he replied. "We'll be there. Is there a dress code?"

"Shirt and tie, sir."

John nodded and thanked the man, ringing off. He stared at his phone, then at Jamie before narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"What?" Jamie mouthed.

John filled him in and Jamie held up his hands, palms facing John, shaking his head with a "wasn't me" expression on his face. John evaluated it quickly and thought Jamie wasn't lying and probably wouldn't lie about this anyway.

"Shirt and tie!" he exclaimed and jumped up, dashing into his bedroom. Jamie followed, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, as John scanned through the clothes in his closet. He had purchased new clothing of course, and had actually got some more professional clothes in case Sherlock had some sort of requirements in that regard, which apparently he didn't. But John was glad he'd done so now, because he was going to need them.

He rang Harry and told her of the plans, not mentioning that this wasn't his decision. Let her think her older brother was treating her; he could tell her later. If he figured out who his anonymous benefactor was. It struck him that it might be Sherlock but then he wondered why – even for his very odd boss, it seemed a bit extravagant and unnecessary. And while he wouldn't have been surprised to know that Sherlock knew his birthday because the man seemed to know everything, John would be surprised if he'd done this.

There wasn't any reason for him to do so. John was just a doctor in his employ.

Unless, of course, he did this for everyone and John was just now finding out.

He sighed as he knotted his tie and made sure he looked presentable enough to be admitted to the restaurant. Maybe his mother? Or maybe it really was Harry. Maybe she was trying to say thank you. She'd sounded surprised on the phone but it was possible she was just trying to play along. John hoped not though, because he'd made it sound like his idea.

"Go out and get some gin, will you?" John asked as he put on his coat and checked the shine on his one pair of dress shoes.

Jamie grinned and nodded, giving him a wave as John left the flat. He clattered down the steps, checking his watch, hoping he wouldn't be late and that he could get a cab on time.

He stepped out into the street, pulling the front door shut behind him, and stopped up short when he saw one of the now-familiar black Mercedes waiting for him. The driver was standing next to the car and smiled when he saw John, opening the rear door.

That answered the question of who.

It didn't answer the question of why.

John hesitated then slipped inside, the door shutting with a professional click.

He met Harry in the hotel lobby, pleased she didn't have a drink in her hand, and smiled warmly at her. She smiled back, rising to greet him with a kiss on the cheek.

"Happy birthday, big brother."

"Hello, Harry. Good to see you."

"This is awfully swanky of you," she said.

"I thought it might be nice," he replied. He had no idea why he was lying, why he wanted to keep Sherlock out of this, keep it his secret. It seemed simpler, though.

And it wasn't really a lie. He did think it might be nice. He just never would have come up with the idea in the first place.

It had been years since he'd had such a good time with his sister. John tried to remember when the last time was and thought it might have been before they'd both turned into teenagers and the fights had started.

She looked better, too. Her eyes were clearer and more focused, her colour was healthier, her smile was more genuine. They talked and caught up, avoiding the topic of her debt by unspoken agreement. John was still not sure how he felt about this – certainly this job had its problems, like technically making him a criminal or at least associated with criminals, but it also had its perks, like letting him move out on his own to central London. Letting him work and live again.

Harry told him about her AA group and was honest about how she was doing, not mincing words about how difficult it was, but there was a lot of hope there, too. She told John she'd been talking to Clara again and John gave her a surprised look.

"Just talking, John, just talking. I don't – I don't expect her to ever want to take me back. I could never blame her for that. I mean, I'd like it. I love her, John, and I was so stupid and threw it all away. But I want to set things right. That's all."

John squeezed her hand and Harry returned the embrace.

"Good for you, Harry," he said. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," she replied, meeting his eyes squarely.

"You coming out to Mum's tomorrow?"

"If you want me to."

John smiled.

"'Course I want you to."

The meal was probably the best John had ever had and he left fairly groaning and stuffed with fine French cuisine. The car was waiting for him when they emerged and the driver offered to take Harry home as well.

"What's this?" Harry asked.

"My boss has a car service," John said and Harry raised her eyebrows at him in shock. "I told you he was rich. Sometimes I get to use it."

There again, a bit of a lie. But she accepted it.

"Well, I'm not saying no to a free ride," she replied and got in beside her brother. John was dropped off first and Harry bid him happy birthday again, thanking him for the dinner and promising to see him the next day. John waved at her, grinning, as the car pulled away, then fished his keys out of his pocket, letting himself back into the flat.

Jamie had purchased several bottles of gin and John hoped that they weren't meant to drink all of them that night. His flatmate filled each of their mugs nearly to the brim with the foul liquid and they clinked the porcelain together.

"Don't you have church in the morning?" John asked.

Jamie leaned over his laptop and typed out something quickly. John peered over his shoulder, wondering if maybe they should look into sign language lessons or John should check with some speech pathologists about those computerized voice systems.

_There are later Masses for sinners like me. Right now, it's gin._

"I'll drink to that," John replied and took a swig, making a face but grinning.

He managed to stagger to bed some hours later after ensuring Jamie made it up the stairs to his temporary room without breaking his neck. John stripped out of his clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap on the floor and crawled naked under the duvet, having not enough coordination or motivation to put on pyjamas. He curled up and waited for the room to stop spinning when he closed his eyes.

Just before he fell asleep, he thought of Sherlock and how he needed to thank him for the extravagant dinner that his boss had provided for he and Harry.


	27. Chapter 27

This may be wildly inappropriate. It may be entirely presumptuous.

Sandra had this debate with herself because, really, they hadn't known each other long, but sometimes it was worth taking the chance.

It wasn't as though she hadn't been to Gabriel's flat before. The security people in the lobby were very friendly and let her in with smiles after checking the bags she was carrying, which contained only groceries. They seemed to like her and this was good, because she wanted her visit to be a surprise. In part because she wasn't sure if she should _really_ be there.

The previous two times she'd been to his flat, he'd invited her over. One had been just the other day. Apparently, the private doctor employed by his firm had put Gabriel on medical leave – the nurse in Sandra approved of that. He needed to rest and shouldn't be working. She approved for personal reasons too. It meant he could spend more time with her.

She'd cooked for him before, both at his place and hers. When Sandra had been a teenager, Joanna had always told people that her younger sister was going to become a chef, but the idea had never really held any appeal, even back then. Sandra loved cooking but the thought of spending hours each day in a hot, smelly kitchen surrounded by other cooks and yelling restaurant managers and waiters was not something she cherished. She'd worked one summer before going to university as a waitress and had hated every minute of it – the demanding customers, the overbearing managers, the temperamental cooks. She'd actually quit partway through the summer and taken a job doing some temp work for the father of a friend, who was a lawyer. That had been better even though the work had been monotonous. At least it wasn't hot, loud and harried.

What she was uncertain of now wasn't the cooking or the visit, it was the timing.

It was Valentine's Day.

She really hadn't known Gabriel that long and she hadn't said anything about it. To be fair, neither had he. Of course, he had an actual reasonable excuse – she'd seen the mess of drugs he was taking right now. She'd even administered some of them when he'd been in the hospital. Odd how that seemed like ages ago but had only been a few weeks.

_Well_, she thought to herself resolutely, _Nothing for it. I'm here now._

And why not? She fancied him. He was good looking – she loved his eyes most of all – he was smart, he was interesting, he was funny. And _he _fancied _her._ It was working out quite nicely.

It didn't hurt his case that he obviously had money, either. She felt a bit shallow thinking that, but it was true. She's spent enough years being a poor student to get through nursing school and now she made more than enough to live on, at least on her own. And she prided herself on making smart choices. She would have chosen Gabriel no matter what, she thought, but it was nice to know that he could support himself. Easily.

Sandra knew she wasn't a stupid woman; she'd been in the top ten percent of her class all through nursing school and that had helped get her the job at St. Mary's. She was smart enough to know that perhaps what he said he did for a living wasn't entirely what he actually did, but she also knew to leave well enough alone. It wasn't that much of a stretch to think something else might be going on, because he'd been shot. He wasn't the first shooting victim Sandra had seen on her ward, but the others had been police officers wounded on duty and once a woman who had been shot in a robbery. That had been hard to see – with the cops, at least they knew there was a chance on the job that this would happen.

She didn't want to know any more than she already did, so it didn't matter.

Sandra knocked on Gabriel's flat door and waited. She knew this would take a few minutes and when he opened the door, he was surprised.

Surprised but smiling.

The medically trained part of her couldn't help the rapid assessment; he looked a bit more rested than last time she'd seen him two days ago. Whoever this Doctor Watson was, Sandra approved of his decisions.

"Hello," Gabriel said, moving back so she could come in. "This is a surprise."

"Yes, well," Sandra replied, taking a deep breath. "Happy Valentine's Day."

He stared at her a moment, looking startled now rather than surprised, then dismayed.

"Oh, no," he said quickly, shaking off one crutch and pressing his palm over his eyes. "I completely forgot."

"It's all right," she said and he dropped his hand to look at her and Sandra got the impression he was trying to evaluate whether she meant that. Was it really all right? Or was it a smoothing-things-over all right?

Well, she'd taken the forthright approach in coming here. Might as well keep it up.

"I mean it's really all right," she said, emphasising this with a smile and a kiss. "I know we didn't talk about it, and with the amount of meds you're taking, you're lucky if you can remember which way is up."

He laughed and caught her face with his left hand, kissing her again.

"I can usually muddle through," he said with a grin and Sandra chuckled, shaking her head.

"In honour of the day and the fact that you're on enforced leave, I thought I'd cook supper. Sound all right?"

"All right?" Gabriel asked. "It sounds brilliant."

She smiled at him and slipped inside, moving easily past him. He shut and locked the door behind her and then followed her into the kitchen. Sandra expected him to settle into a chair and get the weight off his good leg – she knew from professional experience how tiring it was to be on crutches. A lot of the patients who came through her ward had broken limbs, usually legs.

"Drink?" he asked her.

"Just tea," Sandra said.

"I have some quite nice wine."

"Trying to get me drunk?" she teased and he grinned, giving her a not at all convincing innocent look. "Besides, you can't have any on those meds you're taking."

"Believe me, I know. My head feels like it's stuffed with wool as it is. But you're welcome to some if you'd like. It is Valentine's Day after all. And I didn't get you anything. No chocolate, no roses. Not a very good track record so far, you've got to admit."

She laughed.

"Then buy me a very, very expensive bottle of wine once you're not on the meds and we'll share it," she said. "I had more than my fill of cheap beer pub nights when I was a student at Barts. I can wait."

He chuckled and set himself to making some tea, not bothering to ask how she took it. He already remembered that. The realisation made Sandra smile to herself as she unloaded the groceries onto the counter and set to finding everything she'd need.

"Oh, where's Sam?" Gabriel asked her.

"Joanna and Brian took her for the weekend. They were going out of the city to visit Brian's brother in Hampshire near Farnborough. They're on a farm, so Sam can run about and Hollis' allergies can handle her for a day or two. So I'm all yours."

He grinned and slid her tea to her, then leaned over to kiss her. Sandra kissed back – she loved the way he tasted and smelled, almost spicy. The cook in her tried to evaluate the taste as she always did, but she rather lost of her train of thought every time and could never quite pinpoint it. As good as he tasted and smelled, he felt even better and Sandra turned away from the counter, from the half unpacked grocery bag and cupped his face, kissing back harder.

He had one hand around her waist and then they were unbalanced because of his bad leg and Sandra caught him fast, breaking away, laughing. He half leaned, half fell against her with a quiet huff and she held him around his waist, planting her weight, keeping him standing. For a moment, his green eyes were startled and dismayed again but she kept grinning, keeping him up easily. He was a good half foot taller than her but she was no slouch; she shifted patients on regular basis.

"Sorry," he said, looking rueful.

"Oh, don't apologise," Sandra replied and his features relaxed into a smile.

"Do this with all your patients?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow in a way she found extremely sexy.

"Only the lucky ones," she replied with another grin. "I'm very particular you know."

"Oh yes?" he asked. "And what are your criteria?"

"Hmm," she said, drumming her fingers lightly on the small of his back, feeling the slight twitch in his muscles as she did so. "Well. Good looking, intelligent, interesting, must be a Doctor Who fan, close to my age, tall, green eyes, light hair, named Gabriel."

"I can see I must be up against some stiff competition."

"You have no idea," she replied. "You must just be on those lucky ones."

He leaned down and kissed her again, surprising her slightly. There was something else in it, not just playfulness. Appreciation, she thought. Or gratitude.

"I had no idea being shot would work out so well," he commented after he pulled away, combing his fingers through her hair. "I must remember to do it more often."

Sandra grinned and swatted his back, making him feign a yelp.

"Don't you dare. I'd like to get to know the not-on-meds version of you."

Gabriel scoffed.

"He's probably a lot more boring."

"Hmm, we'll see," she replied and kissed him again. "Now sit down and stop distracting me so I can cook. There's something to be said for a proper diet for someone recovering from surgery."

"So I've been told."

"Sound medical advice," she agreed.

Gabriel shuffled to the kitchen chair and sat down, propping his injured leg on another chair. Sandra brought him his tea without being asked and he snagged her hand the moment before she was about to step away, pressing a kiss on her palm.

"What are you making?" he asked, eyes skimming over the groceries she'd spread out on the counter. Sandra washed her hands quickly in the sink, glancing at him over her shoulder.

"Fillet of steak on dauphinoise potatoes with roasted vegetables. Peppers, onion and tomato for the veggies. Sound good?"

"Good? That sounds amazing. Where did you learn to cook like that? I thought you said you went to nursing school."

"Ha! I don't know, I just started doing it when I was a kid. I've always liked it."

"Sounds complicated, though."

"No, not really," she replied. But she saw the doubtful look he gave her as she worked and they chatted and flirted. Sandra really could do this without thinking, consulting her phone for the stored recipe from time to time. It seemed so simple compared to what she did every day, checking IV lines carefully, measuring medications, evaluating vitals readouts, making sure patients weren't lying or panicked.

The prep time wasn't too long and before she knew it, she was putting the veggies in the oven to roast awhile first. Gabriel stood to help her with the tidying up, brushing off her protests about his leg, pointing out that this _was _his flat and that he was not about to let her do all of the work.

This took longer than it should have, as they were distracted by one another occasionally and slightly less so by the food, which Sandra was managing to keep tabs on well enough to keep anything from burning or being undercooked.

When it was finally finished, she filled a plate for each of them and followed him into the living room. The fact that he ate in there made her smile; a place this big and posh and he ate on his couch – well, she could scarcely argue, since she did the same thing. Her flat was much smaller, of course, but she did have room for a small table and set of chairs and almost never used them.

They talked while they ate, about anything and everything. Gabriel asked her about her time at Barts, listening with apparent interest and pleasure to stories about the life of a student and Sandra was surprised then to find out he'd never gone to university. He'd sat his A levels a year earlier than most because, he said, he'd been tired of school and had just wanted to finish, but had never gone on to university.

He'd started working at his current firm at seventeen, just out of sheer luck, he told her. And the fact that he spoke French, which she also hadn't known and found sexy. He promised to teach her and Sandra laughed – she'd taken some in secondary school but thought she might just be able to remember how to ask where the toilets were and nothing else. When she mentioned this, he got her to say it, haltingly, and she could tell he was trying not to laugh. Not maliciously, but with a delighted glint in his green eyes.

"My accent is atrocious," Sandra said.

"But you got it right, so you remember," he replied. "It's a good start. If you can get through nursing school – and very successfully – you can learn French. It can't be as hard as anatomy."

She laughed and kissed him and now he tasted of spices and her own cooking.

When they'd finished eating, she put their plates in the kitchen despite his protests but didn't clean up, just came back and sat down with him, snuggling up. Sandra gave him a quick evaluation; he still seemed very alert despite the meds he'd taken with his meal and she smiled to herself.

Good.

"Would it be entirely too soppy to say this is the best Valentine's Day I can remember having?" he asked, toying with a strand of her hair. Sandra gave him a mock glare to see if he was joking and he smiled, but looked serious.

"An injured leg, medication and a home cooked meal?"

"The best home cooked meal I've had since – well, since last time you cooked here," he said with a grin. "But you outdid yourself. And why not? Fantastic food and even better company? What more could I ask for?"

She kissed him lightly.

"What, no wining and dining of international clients in posh restaurants with stuffy waiters and overpriced food?"

He grinned, shaking his head.

"No, I told you, unmedicated me is boring. I think mostly I've just worked over Valentine's Day in the past. And _not_ wining and dining. Probably paperwork."

"That _is_ boring," Sandra agreed. "I think medicated you can teach unmedicated you a thing or two."

"I think you're right."

She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him again, this time more deeply.

"So," Sandra said, pulling away. "I can think of a few ways for you to make up for the lack of chocolate and roses."

He laughed, resting his forehead against hers, then kissed her again, cupping her face with one hand, wrapping the other around her waist, his fingers trailing up her spine. Sandra felt herself shudder, only slightly, probably not enough for him to pick up on, or so she thought until he pulled away and she saw the glint in his now darker green eyes.

"With pleasure," he replied.


	28. Chapter 28

Gabriel buried his face in his pillow as a faint sound cut through the edges of sleep, jerking him half-awake. He ignored it and settled down again – he needed to sleep and noises in the flat be damned.

He had taken John's advice last night and had company – and had kept any and all weight off of his leg. Now he was going to take John's advice about sleep. He was worn out as it was and the meds weren't helping but at least – he grinned a sleepy evil little grin – he'd got some exercise again.

Now, sleep. Whoever was in his flat could wait.

His eyes snapped open at the sudden realisation that someone _was_ in his flat and he sat up fast, swallowing a groan as he yanked himself painfully from semi-consciousness. It wasn't that he worried about who it was – there was only one person it could be who could come in unannounced without setting off the alarm.

It was more that he wasn't wearing anything.

He hadn't moved that fast on the crutches yet but incentive helped. So did the fact that he kept a pair of pyjamas folded on the chair near the bed now so that he didn't have to shuffle across the room to change in the evenings – he could nab the pyjamas and sit down on the bed and deal with putting clothing away in the morning.

He wasn't going to have time for that and it wouldn't escape Sherlock's sharp notice that Gabriel's clothes were more than a little strewn about but he didn't care. Sherlock had certainly walked in on a similar state before and had refrained from commenting except for cocking an eyebrow – which for him was worse than a pointed remark, actually. It was amazing what he could say with one simple raised eyebrow.

Gabriel glanced back at the clock and felt his eyes widen in something combining shock and relief. Sandra had left only fifteen minutes earlier in order to get home in time to change before her shift at St. Mary's.

_Right_, he thought just as Sherlock strode in without any apparent concern for or acknowledgement of the concept of privacy. He evaluated Gabriel quickly – Gabriel was used to that, Sherlock did that to everyone – then the room.

And raised his eyebrow.

_Right,_ Gabriel thought again. He had no real problem with Sherlock coming and going because he'd known Sherlock for eight years and trusted no one else quite as much as he trusted the curly haired genius.

Yet.

And it was just who Sherlock was. Gabriel was used to the other man's little eccentricities and his ideas – of lack thereof – about personal boundaries and space. He hadn't really cared up until this point but he did now.

_Fifteen minutes_, he thought. _Too close_.

He didn't want to have to do this, but he did it anyway.

"John said you should be resting and recovering," Sherlock pointed out.

"Sherlock, I need you to stop coming in here unannounced," Gabriel said at almost exactly the same time.

They both paused, waiting for the other to take up the verbal space, then Sherlock frowned.

"Sorry," Gabriel said, because he didn't want to see disappointment there, but he wasn't taking the chance. Fifteen minutes was far too close.

He had no issue with it, but he was pretty sure Sandra would have, especially given Sherlock's game of partners at the hospital. He was a difficult man to understand – Gabriel had gone through that initially. They all had. The difference was Gabriel had chosen to work for him. Sandra wasn't his friend or his employee and only knew him from his huffy overprotectiveness at the hospital.

"But you have to call in advance or give me some warning," he continued.

Sherlock turned his head slightly, evaluating him, then seemed to decide since he was already in the flat he could make himself at home. He sat down in the chair near the bed and crossed one leg over the other at the knee and keeping his thoughtful gaze on Gabriel.

"This has never been a problem before," he commented.

"No," Gabriel agreed. And it hadn't. Sherlock did have a fairly good sense of timing and had never actually caught Gabriel in a compromising position, but he had caught him with overnight guests still in the flat before.

And it hadn't actually mattered, it really hadn't. Gabriel had liked most of those people – he'd admit to not knowing the names of one or two – but he'd never imagined or wanted anything more than a brief romance at best. To him, they'd been passingly interesting and he'd always disentangled himself if he thought the other party wanted more or was getting too involved.

He wondered if anyone had ever tried to establish and keep personal boundaries with Sherlock. Mycroft, probably. Charles most likely. Gabriel suspected no success with the former and success with the latter only because what Charles had wanted was what Sherlock had wanted.

"This is different," he said.

"Is it?" Sherlock enquired.

"Yes."

Sherlock evaluated him again and Gabriel kept his features open deliberately – Sherlock had told him on more than one occasion that he had a tendency to make himself look blank and he'd done it so long he hadn't even realised until it had been pointed out to him. It was one of the reasons Sherlock had noticed him in the first place. It took effort not to smooth over his reactions – years of dealing with his family, he thought.

It _was_ different, too. Sandra was – brilliant. Beautiful and smart and funny and interested in _him_ of all people. The fact that she could see past the patient who'd been shot and the man on the mess of medication meant something. She picked up on things that no one else who didn't know him would. And she'd taken a chance on that.

He owed it to her _not_ to have Sherlock barge in unexpectedly.

"Please," Gabriel added simply.

He was willing to bet Mycroft had never said that to his younger brother, because "antagonistic" would be a good way to describe their interactions. Mycroft was overbearing, Sherlock chafed under this and they danced round each other with verbal barbs that would make MPs in the House of Commons green with envy.

And Charles? Well, Sherlock had probably heard "please" from him for very different reasons in a very different tone.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"You are my second-in-command," he pointed out. "I require you be available."

"And I am. Or I will be once John lets me go back to work. By phone, Sherlock. Half the time you call me anyway. Just switch the other half to the same thing."

He refrained from saying he'd never asked for anything before. While this was broadly true – excepting small things and being allowed to live uneaten by alligators – he didn't want to resort to the guilting he knew Mycroft used. It wouldn't get him anywhere. Sherlock was already displeased – Gabriel could tell. He was keeping his own expression pleasantly neutral but there was the telltale darkening of his light grey eyes that Gabriel had learned to watch for in the eight years he'd been working for Sherlock. He'd never seen it directed at him and knew that this meant the odds were good that Sherlock would keep himself from being too upset.

He usually reserved that for those who were irritating him – annoying clients, the police, Sebastian…

"I know it's your building and I work for you and I don't pay any rent – which I will if you want or I'll buy the flat from you outright. I'm not asking you not to come in. I'm asking you to call first. That's it."

There was a moment of silence, then Sherlock nodded.

"Very well," he said, a little stiffly. Gabriel repressed a sigh; well, he'd known it wouldn't go brilliantly, but it could have been worse.

"Now, what is it you need?" Gabriel asked. "Because I'm about to fall asleep sitting here talking to you, so you should probably make it quick."

Sherlock paused again.

"Nothing urgent," he replied and Gabriel did a quick evaluation to see if he was lying and decided he probably wasn't. Always hard to tell for sure with Sherlock and being tired and on meds didn't help his ability to read his friend.

This would probably need more smoothing over, because as aloof as Sherlock liked to pretend he was, his feathers were easily ruffled. But it would have to wait, both because Gabriel needed sleep and Sherlock was not going to be receptive to anything right now.

"You should sleep, as John instructed."

"I'm going to," Gabriel replied. "Smart man, that John."

At this, Sherlock's lips twitched and Gabriel knew he'd hit the mark. Although Sherlock probably hadn't realised it yet. It was fun to see the hints but he kept his silence. Let them sort it out – it was too soon anyway. Sherlock didn't like to be told about his own behaviour and Gabriel had certainly done enough of that for one day. Possibly for a month.

"Quite right," his boss agreed, hopefully not to what Gabriel had just been thinking.

"Good night, Sherlock," Gabriel sighed.

"It's after seven in the morning."

"Good morning, then."

"I will come by later. And I will call."

It was a small admission but enough of one. Gabriel nodded his thanks, waited until Sherlock had closed the bedroom door behind him, then crawled back into bed.

* * *

><p>All of the post was vetted, of course; nothing crossed her desk here that hadn't been checked by the equipment in the mailroom. The pink envelope therefore did not alarm her. Rather, it intrigued her. It stood out among the white and manila envelopes that were standard fare and often didn't warrant being opened. She did so anyway, of course – better that than lose a lead. It had served her well, once or twice.<p>

This one…

Greeting card-sized and postmarked from Paris. She checked the date. Yes, sent the previous week, on Thursday. Someone had sent it secure in the knowledge that it would reach her the day after Valentine's Day.

And it was a Valentine's card. Veronique knew that without opening it, given the colour of the envelope. The other options were Easter, her birthday or a congratulatory card for a baby girl. It was too soon for Easter, a month late for her birthday and she knew for a fact that she had no children of either sex.

She eased it from the pile of post that had been deposited on her desk early that morning and held it lightly between her right index and middle fingers – the same fingers between which she held her cigarettes. EU regulations forbade smoking in public places and government offices, of course. Strictly speaking, she answered to no governments and all governments, which made it a blurry area, but she bowed to the general consensus within the building and did her smoking outside.

As such, her office smelled of nothing but the circulated air from the heating system and her morning coffee, both smells to which she had long ago adjusted. Even the daughter of a long line of perfumiers could inure herself to scents if she became accustomed to them. It didn't hurt – or perhaps it did, depending on how one viewed it – that she was a smoker.

Certainly it must have dulled her sense of smell and occasionally her father despaired of her lost abilities but she had not noticed such a drastic decrease as he liked to imagine. Veronique often thought, within the privacy of her own mind, that smokers who truly lost their senses of smell and taste were simply not trying hard enough to cultivate and retain them.

The scent of her cigarettes remained exquisite, as did her coffee when she first poured it. She only relegated the coffee to the background while working. Her sense of smell had solved one case already, identifying a subtle and cloying cologne worn by a man wanted in France and Belgium on murder charges.

She smelled something very subtle now. Not cloying, no. Familiar.

Veronique raised the dark pink envelope and sniffed it delicately. She did so again for confirmation and then smiled. If the smile was somewhat cold, it was also triumphant and appreciative.

She was no stranger to admirers but this was not one. Or, if it was, she may have to track him down and marry him because he had chosen perfectly for her. She knew it must be male – this scent was made for men and a woman wouldn't send it with the suggestion that Veronique should wear it. Her body chemistry was all wrong for it.

It was from her family's own line and one of the most expensive. A subtle musk with only the barest hint of vanilla, one she could smell but that she doubted nine others out of ten here would. At least not consciously.

Veronique withdrew an ivory-handled letter opener from her desk. Somewhere, she knew, an elephant had died for this and she herself was not a proponent of poaching – she _was _an Interpol agent, after all – but the elephant had died well over sixty years ago and nothing was to be done about that. Her grandfather had given this to her and he'd had it since he was a boy.

She slit the envelope open in a smooth motion and pulled the card out gently. Veronique set the envelope and letter opener aside and sniffed the card – there was a faint trace of the cologne on here as well but absorbed from the envelope.

She twitched an eyebrow up in approval. He had not overdone it. He wanted to be recognised but not aggressive.

The front of the card was a print of a Monet, _Water Lilies_. A French painter for a French woman from what was undoubtedly a French man. Parisian, too, she was certain of it and not just because the card had been sent from Paris. Just a hunch, but she'd developed good instincts and knew when to trust them.

Veronique flipped open the card, unsurprised to find the inside blank of a pre-printed message. No, he would want to avoid that. There was a personalised message, if it could be called that, written in lazy and confident cursive. A man's handwriting, definitely. That was simple enough to pick up.

_8 Mars, 13 h. Charles Chauvière._

8th of March, one in the afternoon.

Veronique raised her eyebrow again and picked up the envelope. The return address was for a post office box, of course – this did not have to be a problem, since they could arrange with the _gens d'armes _to locate the post office in question and have it monitored, but anyone who sent her a message such as this would know that and avoid said office.

And it was not a threat.

It was an appointment schedule.

No location but that was simple. The card had been delivered here. The address for their rendezvous was therefore already established.

Veronique called up her calendar on her phone and set the appointment. Then she smoothed the card's crease to keep it open and flipped up her laptop screen.

His was not such a common name that she would have difficult tracking him down and Veronique spent a very instructive half an hour learning about Charles Chauvière. Identifying him from the handful of men with the same name who lived in or around Paris was simple. None of the others were men who would send her a card with an appointment time and expect it to be met.

Nor was he entirely unknown to Interpol, it seemed. From his photograph, she was not surprised. Any man with his beauty and skill at languages had enough assets that he should have come to their attention long before he had – eight years ago, she noticed. They should have recruited him. If she had known about him, she would have. Six languages, the same amount she spoke, but not all the same ones.

And working for a large international real estate firm based in London. Manager for all of the French operations. Veronique felt her lips curl a bit at that one – dry amusement and a knowing suspicion. Nothing in his file indicated any hint of criminal activity, which was dubious at best. Why had he even come to their attention with a record this meticulously clean? Ah, transporting champagne to London had got him stopped at customs once in England, although he had the proper paperwork for imports and had been let go with minimum fuss. Someone with an eye like hers had flagged him and had left it at that. Nothing since 2002.

_Oh yes,_ she thought, tapping her lips with her index finger. _M. Chauvière, I very much doubt that._

She sent a brief email to one of their liaison officers at the _Police Nationale _in Paris requesting more information. She was unlikely to get anything – the "large international real estate firm" in London undoubtedly covered its tracks very thoroughly and very carefully and judging by the way Charles Chauvière appeared in all the photographs stored in their database, he took quite good care of himself. This was not a man to make a misstep.

Contacting her had been a calculated action and he would want something specific. Veronique knew that she wouldn't learn what it was until the eighth of March. There was no point attempting to contact him before hand, not unless she valued wasting her time. She put the card upright on her desk, slipped the envelope and the letter opener into a desk drawer, and returned to work.


	29. Chapter 29

John was working on the dresser again when a knock came on his flat door. He stood, wiping his hands on a rag that he then tossed on top of the dresser and rubbed his face to get some of the sawdust off. He had the whole thing sanded now and was cleaning it to get the dust off before varnishing it again. The project had been slowed somewhat by Jamie's arrival in the flat, but John didn't mind. He'd take the company and the knowledge that his friend was working again and out of that damned halfway house over a small delay in finishing his project.

He thought it might be Mrs. Hudson and hoped she hadn't climbed up those steps if her hip was bothering her, but usually she just called. It wouldn't be Jamie – he had his own set of keys, of course.

John was only a little surprised to find Sherlock standing at his door when he pulled it open. _Well, of course_, he thought to himself. _Who else can just waltz into this building?_

Anyone else would have buzzed at the front door, but Sherlock apparently had keys to the entire planet. John wouldn't have been surprised if he was on a first name basis with the Queen and went round for a cuppa and just walked right into her apartments in the palace. He was beginning to think it was astonishing he hadn't run into Sherlock in Afghanistan. He probably could walk into any country he wanted, assured of his presence there. Hell, he probably had people working for him in almost every country in the world.

"'Afternoon, Sherlock," John said, to which Sherlock gave him a single, cool nod. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied in a clipped voice. "You have deprived me of my second-in-command. This creates a significant number of complications, although I appreciate you are unlikely to be aware of this. I run a large organisation, John, that requires a great deal of work that I cannot or do not do on my own."

John sighed. Really?

"Okay, but you can't tell me Gabriel does everything you don't do," he replied. "Sure, I get that I don't know how much work being a criminal mastermind is, but it seems to me like you've got more than just the two of you."

"Indeed," Sherlock said icily. "Delegation of these matters is not a major concern."

"Then what?"

Sherlock hesitated and John fought the urge to roll his eyes. He probably just wanted to complain.

"There are certain matters that I trust Gabriel with that I do not trust to anyone else but myself but prefer not to handle because I find them tedious," Sherlock said and John held back a sarcastic remark and just nodded. In his mind, he translated this to "He does the things I don't want to do and he has to do them because I'm his boss". Well, John did understand that, to some extent. He'd been a captain in the army. He'd delegated his fair share of shit jobs.

"Well I didn't really deprive you of him," John pointed out. "That Mister Williams from the US did. If you want to take this up with anyone, it should probably be him."

Sherlock snorted, cocking an eyebrow at John but his grey eyes registered something else – something that looked suspiciously like partially concealed amusement.

"Much to my relief, Mister Williams does _not_ work for me. If he did, I'd be entirely displeased with his performance because he failed quite thoroughly in both of his objectives and managed to get himself caught as well."

John gave Sherlock an incredulous look, but he seemed entirely serious. Only he could judge the situation like that, John thought. Yes, Williams had failed to get Mrs. Hudson – thank God – and failed to kill Gabriel and then been caught by Jim, and John thought all of these were good things. Sherlock obviously did too, but _of course_ he could see it from the other perspective.

It was a bit creepy.

"You, on the other hand, do work for me."

"So this means you can come round to my flat and berate me for doing the job you hired me to do?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted again, but his lips twitched in the ghost of a smile.

"I am not berating you," he said. "Believe me, John, you would be absolutely certain if I were. There would be no question whatsoever."

John raised his eyebrows.

"All right," he said. "And yes, I put your injured man on medical leave because he needs it. Like I told you, if he doesn't take time off now, it's going to take him much longer to recover. I'm a surgeon, Sherlock. And I've been shot. I know the recovery from both sides. If you want me to do the job you hired me for, you have to listen to me even when you don't like it. That's the thing about doctors."

"Oh, I am well aware," Sherlock commented dryly.

John sighed.

"Then what do you want?" he asked.

"To start, I would like to come in," Sherlock said, pulling one gloved hand from the pocket of his overcoat and gesturing the flat. John started somewhat – it was a bit rude not to have invited him in, but then again, Sherlock was his boss, not his best mate or anything.

Still, it wasn't that unexpected, if only because it was Sherlock and John was starting to get used to the way he did things.

"Come in, then," John said. "Tea?"

"Please," Sherlock replied, making himself at home without any invitation to do so this time, hanging his coat and sinking onto the couch as if he belonged there. John let it pass; it didn't actually make him uneasy despite the fact that he knew it should. He supposed that after all the people he'd dealt with in Afghanistan – from pretty much every side that there was – one British man just wasn't that much of a threat, even if he was armed and the head of a major crime organisation.

_Perspective,_ John snorted to himself.

"I quite liked the tea you served last time. Do you have the same kind?"

John poked his head back out of the kitchen.

"Yes, I do, but it's just regular tea from the grocery store." He fetched the box and held it up and Sherlock just nodded like this didn't surprise him.

"It was excellent nonetheless," he said, further confirming to John how odd he was. It was just tea, and pretty cheap stuff to boot. "And do you happen to also have any of those biscuits with chocolate on?"

"What?" John asked, leaning back this time to see his boss in the living room.

Sherlock made a circle with his thumb and index finger, not quite bringing them together.

"The tea biscuits that have the chocolate on them. About so big," he explained.

"You mean HobNobs?" John asked, suddenly remembering some similar debate between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson on the day John had met his landlady.

"Yes, those," Sherlock said happily. John gave him a puzzled look but Sherlock seemed entirely serious and not at all bothered by the correction. Who didn't know that word?

"I think we do," John said. "Pretty sure Jamie just bought some."

He was right – his flatmate had. John made tea and put some biscuits on a plate and took it all into the living room, where Sherlock snagged two of the HobNobs with apparent delight.

_Seriously? How rich is he and he thinks these are a real treat?_

"I want to say thanks for the dinner you arranged for me and Harry on my birthday," John said. He'd been meaning to do this, but had wanted to do so in person and the previous day had been taken up by a visit out to Buckhurst Hill with Jamie and Harry to see his mum. "That was – well, unexpected, to be honest, but really brilliant. You really didn't have to do that."

Sherlock just waved one hand dismissively at the last comment but looked pleased nonetheless. He didn't bother to explain why he'd done it, John noted.

"I'm happy to hear you enjoyed it," he replied. "It is one of the better restaurants in the city."

_I'll say_, John thought. And wondered again at the incongruity of someone who probably ate there on a regular basis treating HobNobs with such obvious glee.

"I'm getting excellent reports from my head mechanic regarding James," Sherlock said and John had to think a moment to realise he meant Jamie – he never used that name with his old friend. "I must thank you for recommending him."

John snorted and Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.

"Sorry," John said. "It's just that – well yes, of course he's brilliant at it. He was brilliant at it out there and here he's not being shot at while he works."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, appearing genuinely surprised.

"Does that happen?"

John blinked then stared at him a moment, trying to gauge if he was serious.

"Yes, it happens. All the time. How much do you know about the war?"

"I'm happy to say not very much at all," Sherlock replied. "Afghanistan is not really my area."

John stared again, frowning.

"Not really your – You don't have any operations down there?"

Sherlock sniffed and gave him an offended look.

"Certainly not. I'm not a war profiteer, John. I see very little value in wasting human life for short term gain. It ultimately reduces the amount of customers and these sorts of operations are fraught with complications. I will admit to being almost entirely ignorant of how many armed forces are present in Afghanistan outside of the British and American militaries and I am certain you can appreciate on a very personal level how many levels of security and bureaucratic red tape one must pass through just to gain entry into the country."

John opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"But – you _are_ a criminal, I mean –"

"Yes, do you imagine that organised crime has no bureaucracy and diplomacy? It's simply not advertised because, as you point out, we are criminals. If you must know, my operations are primarily located in Europe and parts of North America and Asia where the political situations are much more stable even if, at present, our economies are not. It is so much simpler to work in these environments, and simpler work results in more money."

"You do know that Helmand Province is one of the biggest sources for heroin production on the planet, right?"

"I am aware of that, yes," Sherlock said. "And I know you are aware that I do not participate in the drugs trade, because I did tell you that."

John stared at him again, disbelieving.

"Ah, I see. You thought I was lying."

"Of course I thought you were lying! It's a multi-billion pound industry!"

"And my areas of expertise have not left me a pauper by any stretch of the imagination. But the problem with the drugs trade is that many of the players tend to be addicts themselves or trigger happy or simply psychopaths. I am aware that you're going to point out that Jim is a psychopath. I know this. I would rather deal with Jim than with an addict."

"So, wait, you're telling me that you don't run drugs because you don't like them?"

"Quite right. Please don't misunderstand me, John. I am not a nice man. I have no qualms about this. I have chosen this route because I enjoy the game and I enjoy making very large sums of money at other people's expense. I see no reason to mince words about that – don't look so shocked. It's no more than you were thinking about me anyway. But _I_ do not like drugs. I don't care a whit what other people do with them – you could bathe in a tub full of your Afghani heroin as long as you were sober on the job and did your work as I expect it."

"It's not _my_ heroin," John said sharply. "Don't you know that's one of the things we're trying to _stop_ out there?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, then sat back and appeared to consider that. "Yes, I suppose that makes sense."

John felt a flash of anger then it drained away quickly – the expression on Sherlock's face told him he wasn't being obtuse or callous. He just didn't think about it because it wasn't his problem. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. How many people felt that way? Once he may have blamed them. Now he wasn't so sure. After all he'd seen and done, he could understand the value of blissful ignorance. But that attitude might just be making things worse.

"You really don't know much about the war, do you?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied forthrightly, apparently not at all bothered by his answer. "I have done some research since having met you but I hope you'll appreciate that I am a very busy man. I generally leave this in my brother's purview."

"Your brother?" John asked.

"Oh yes. He's in government."

John paused, thinking about this.

"And – uh – does he know what it is that you do?"

"Mycroft? I can't imagine that he doesn't. He makes it his business to know what I'm doing, often against my wishes, which he seems to dismiss as irrelevant." There was a flash of distaste in the curl of Sherlock's lips at that and John marvelled – sibling rivalry? Really? A major crime boss chafed under the overbearingness of an older brother? And he must be older, John thought, because Sherlock was in his early thirties at best and John couldn't imagine someone younger than him having that kind of effect on him.

"And he hasn't – well, he hasn't had you arrested?"

"Why would he?" Sherlock enquired, seeming truly puzzled. "He's in government. The majority of what he does can be considered crime and he sometimes finds it useful to have access to someone close to him who operates outside of regular channels."

"Ah," John said, really only for something to say.

"Do you still have friends there?"

"What, in government?" John asked.

Sherlock flashed him a look that was chock full of do-_try_-to-keep-up.

"Oh, Afghanistan, yeah of course. My old unit is still down there. It wasn't all of us who were injured the day I was shot."

"How many others?" Sherlock asked. John felt his expression darken for a moment and was sure Sherlock must have noticed but he didn't retract the question.

"Jamie and I were the only ones invalided back to England. Two more men were injured by not badly enough to come home and stayed there. One man died."

"Hmm," Sherlock said, almost noncommittally, but then his expression turned thoughtful. "You're concerned for their safety, of course."

"Of course," John echoed sharply.

"But there must be a number of people in your unit and other medical personnel with whom you worked. You were stationed at Bastion, which is the headquarters for military operations in Afghanistan."

"I thought you said you didn't know anything about the war," John said hotly.

"No, I said I do not know very much at all, which is a larger sum of knowledge than nothing. And I do make it my business to know about the people whom I hire, John."

John wondered how the conversation had got to this point – he felt like he'd lost any track of it sometime after the discussion about HobNobs but also felt that Sherlock wasn't going to let him out of it. Most people would recognise the "I do _not_ want to talk about this" looks John was shooting Sherlock now, and he was certain his boss wasn't missing them, just ignoring them altogether.

"Yes to both," John muttered. "But that doesn't mean I'm not worried about all of them."

"Such as Tricia Remsen?"

John's gaze snapped up fast, eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a thin line, and Sherlock actually looked taken aback for the briefest of moments.

"How do you know about Tricia?" John demanded.

"Her name on your blog," Sherlock replied and John held himself rigid for several long seconds, then forced himself to relax. Of course.

"You read my blog," he said flatly.

"Of course. It's quite entertaining."

"I thought you said you were a busy man."

"I am indeed, but it does not take long and it is in my best interests to know what I can about my employees, particularly those close to me."

"And I'm sure you could find all out about her on your own but since you're not going to let it go gracefully, then yes, she's one of them."

"Graciously."

"What?"

"The word you wanted was 'graciously', not 'gracefully'."

John tried to shift mental gears then shook his head.

"She's my friend," he said flatly, and left it at that. Sherlock gave him another arched eyebrow but John didn't rise to the bait – he didn't want to go into that. Let Sherlock find out what he wanted to know through whatever his usual channels were.

"Is Helmand Province a dangerous place?" Sherlock enquired.

John grunted.

"The whole of the country is dangerous," he replied. "But Helmand is pretty bad, yeah. In part because of the poppy trade. Places like Kabul are slightly better."

"I can understand why you may not want to discuss it, then," Sherlock said, apparently finally getting the message and letting it drop. John fought against sagging in relief – he thought about the people he cared for who were still there every day, almost every waking moment, even if it was only in the back of his mind. There were times when he and Jamie had to avoid talking about Tricia because it was too tense to do so, knowing they were both here and she was still there. And she was friends with both of them. She was family to both of them, really. John didn't want to be talking about her to someone who didn't know her, whose only interest in her was knowing more about John's life.

John wasn't even sure why his boss cared so much about his life. He wanted to just write it off to general nosiness, but he thought he actually detected a hint of concern around the edges of those light grey eyes.

John took a deep breath – no need to be angry if that was genuine interest. He wouldn't have thought it possible, not for a man like Sherlock, but there it was.

He let out his breath in a slow exhale, letting the tension ebb from his muscles.

"Sorry," he said and Sherlock raised both eyebrows this time. "I don't like talking about it. But yes, she's like family. And I miss her. So there you go."

"Understandable," Sherlock agreed with a nod, then put his tea mug aside. "All right, Doctor, let's go."

"What?" John asked, derailed by this sudden switch in the conversation. "Go? Go where?"

Sherlock stood, giving him a mildly puzzled look.

"I did say that you've deprived me of my second-in-command. Therefore, I am expanding your job duties to include whatever else I see fit."

"But – I can't do Gabriel's job. I don't even know what he does. I wouldn't know the first thing about what to do!"

"Of course not," Sherlock agreed. "I have several people who can assume his responsibilities until you allow him to return to work. However, you are a former army captain and quite an expert marksman according to your records. You will be a significant intimidating presence should I require one. And you may have other skills that have yet to be discovered."

John thought that it must be a joke this time, surely. But Sherlock was watching him with an expectant expression.

"What – what do you want me to do?"

"Oh, just generally stand and look vaguely menacing," Sherlock said offhandedly, as if this wasn't an utterly absurd request. "But first, you will need to shower and change. It's difficult to look menacing covered in sawdust in and dressed the way you are. And you will need your gun. A shirt and good trousers should do for the clothing, no need for a tie, I think. Hmm, no, not yet at any rate. Well, John, what are you waiting for? I think I just gave you fairly clearly instructions. Shower, change, make yourself presentable. I have work that needs to be done, so the sooner, the better."

John gave up – both in protesting and in trying to understand. He had no illusions that once Sherlock decided he wanted something, he got it. John's contract said nothing about being what amounted to a hired goon, but as long as he didn't have to shoot anyone – at least anyone who didn't deserve it – he couldn't really argue. Mostly because Sherlock could probably change the contract and make it look like the original document that John had signed specified this sort of work as well.

It gave him something to do, he thought as he rather reluctantly left Sherlock to his own devices and went to shower. He hadn't been doing much in the way of work other than checking on Gabriel, none of Sherlock's other employees having recently run afoul of other gun-totting maniacs. John tried to put a good face on it as he stripped down in his bathroom – after carefully locking the door, of course. At very least, it promised to be interesting company.


	30. Chapter 30

_The first time isn't so bad. John manages to make it past the three beds that separate them. He teeters unsteadily, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg and the pain in his shoulder, against the silver spots that dance around the edges of his vision, against the rush of light headedness._

_He's a doctor. He knows the signs. He isn't going to pass out._

_He also knows Jamie is going to wake up. He's seen the indications from his own bed, watching in a bit of a morphine-induced daze. The sudden realisation that Jamie has only been awake once so far, and that only for a few minutes when they were being loaded on the plane to be flown out, nearly makes John sober again. He cuts through the lethargy created by the pain medication, forcing his brain to cooperate. He's had drug resistance training. And torture resistance training. He uses them both now._

_They're in England. He knows that. Jamie has no idea. That last thing he remembers is – what? John doesn't even know. The explosion? The day before that? Tricia bidding each of them a hasty good-bye before they were put on the plane?_

_John pushes away thoughts of Tricia – they're too close to the surface, too suffocating. _

_He makes it to Jamie's bed and nearly collapses into the chair, breathing hard, telling himself he's not going to black out._

_But this time really isn't so bad. Jamie's only awake for a few minutes, disoriented, exhausted, managing to drink some water, nodding along when John tells him to go back to sleep, that he's fine, that Tricia's fine, that he doesn't need to worry. Falling asleep again with his hands wrapped tightly around John's right one, John trying to ignore the searing pain in his left shoulder._

_John makes them move him so their beds are next to one another. The nurses listen to him partly because he's being belligerent, he thinks, partly because they feel bad._

_The second time is so much worse._

_It's the middle of the night and John's instincts wake him up. He's conscious only minutes before Jamie is, barely enough time to shake off the morphine haze. He's had several hours of sleep, which is good. He needed them._

_The panic lasts too long. Army training is almost forgotten. John can see Jamie trying but there's too much shock and denial, too much fear and pain and too many drugs in his system._

_The nurses threaten to sedate Jamie. John promises to start yelling and wake up the entire ward if they do. He will, he doesn't care. If they sedate him, this will only happen again next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Jamie needs to adjust. They can't keep it from him forever._

_Jamie isn't disturbing anyone – no one but the nurses. Not John, who holds his hands through it all, talking to him in a level tone, trying to get the words to cut through whatever is going on in Jamie's mind. Jamie's shouting, but John can't hear him. No one can, no one but Jamie himself and then only in the privacy of his own head. He keeps repeating something over and over, lips moving, no sound coming out, even as John tries to explain, because better that he knows, that he understands._

_John doesn't understand him. Right now, at the beginning, there are no words he recognises, so he just holds on._

John snapped his eyes open, breathing hard, staring at the clock for several long seconds before the numbers made sense. It was shortly after five-thirty in the morning. He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face – he was probably not going to get back to sleep now. Not at this time of morning, because he was used to getting up around six or six-thirty, and not after a nightmare.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, then became aware of faint sounds coming from the living room and the occasional flicker of light casting in along the bottom of his door. John pushed himself to seated and listened; the telly was on but the volume was low.

With a sigh, he tossed his duvet aside and sat in the chilly air for a moment, trying to get the nightmare to dissipate. The ones that were memories were always the worst – dreams made up of jumbled fragments of remembered battles interspersed with fictional events were easier to shake off because they hadn't happened. When he dreamt about being shot or being in the hospital it always settled into his chest longer, making his lungs feel somewhat constricted.

And of course he'd have a nightmare about Jamie on Jamie's birthday. Ella had always wanted to dissect his dreams, sort out their meanings, but sometimes John just felt like his mind was trying to subvert him.

He drew a deep breath and swung himself out of bed, finding some socks and then padding into the living room with his arms folded across his stomach for warmth.

Jamie was asleep on the couch, half curled on his left side, head pillowed on his arm and on a small throw pillow, Mrs. Hudson's afghan pulled up to his waist. The telly was on, running some stupid early morning talk show or infomercial that had probably started playing after the other man had fallen asleep. John found the remote and turned the volume down slowly to muted before shutting the telly off so the sudden lack of sound wouldn't wake Jamie.

_At least it's not just me,_ John thought, but this was small comfort at best. He headed into the kitchen in the darkness that had swallowed the flat when he'd turned the television off, glad neither of them was working today. It was Jamie's birthday so they'd both requested the day off and Sherlock had given it to them without batting an eyelash.

He ran himself a glass of water and found himself grateful that he had this job despite the illegality of it all. Sherlock was an amazingly flexible boss and seemed to understand about things of personal importance. This surprised John to no small extent because Sherlock did not at all strike him as the kind of person who would comprehend that, but the more John worked with him, the more he realised how observant his new boss could be.

And how he played people based on what he was reading from them.

Was he playing John and Jamie? If so, why? John drained and refilled his glass. He doubted Sherlock was getting something out of giving them a day off in the middle of the week. He chased that around in his mind a bit but couldn't come up with anything. But it was nice to get a break.

Although the last two days had certainly been instructive. John had been a little bit astonished to find out most of what Sherlock did during the day consisted of business meetings. He wasn't sure why this surprised him – if pressed, he would admit to having no ideas about what a crime boss' day generally looked like. He'd also been surprised to realise most of the meetings were about genuine, above-board business. International real estate, as Sherlock had said. John hadn't even imagined that the cover was real, but of course he'd have a legitimate front business. Didn't all criminal organisations have that? John recognised that he was basing that largely on American movies, but it made sense. The government would come sniffing about otherwise, especially given the large sums of money being made.

John hadn't done much but sit in on things and, as per Sherlock's instructions, "watch and listen". He didn't know what he was contributing but he did as ordered, falling back on his military training, keeping a sharp eye on everything, listening carefully to everything that was said and trying to sort out unspoken subtext. He doubted he was anywhere near as good at it as Sherlock or any of Sherlock's people who did this as their actual jobs, but he gave it his best effort.

And he thought he'd pegged a couple of instances in which something illegal was actually going on. John hadn't asked, because he didn't want to know, but there had been a man purchasing property in the Cayman Islands who looked stressed out about something – John was pretty sure that extradition from the Caymans was either impossible or nearly so. There had also been some lengthy discussion about a transfer of property in Hong Kong that John read as stolen goods being brought to England for private sale.

He kept his silence on that. The less he knew, the better. Besides, Sherlock hadn't asked for his opinions – John was certain that Gabriel's job involved giving feedback, but Gabriel also knew what he was doing.

Once, only once, had he seen irritation crease Sherlock's solicitous features as impatience flickered briefly through his eyes at the tail end of a three hour meeting with several lawyers. John had endured that silently as well, wondering how Sherlock put up with it, and the doctor had tried to follow along but the whole thing had seemed complicated. Something to do with acquiring property in France and EU and French and British laws. It seemed like an important deal somehow but John couldn't pin down exactly what was going on because it was obviously in the process of being negotiated and finalised, so he was coming in probably somewhere at the halfway point. It seemed Sherlock was working hard to get this done but John missed a lot of the conversation which wound back and forth between English and French.

He'd been right that Sherlock spoke French, though. The sound of it had startled John at first, that smooth voice dropping slightly in pitch, taking on a low rumble, the ars rolling in the back of his throat.

It had made the skin of the back of John's neck crawl, but not at all in a bad way.

_Stop it_, he told himself now, draining and refilling his glass. _That's enough._

He'd made his choice years ago and he knew he was lucky enough to be able to do so. He could see both sides – hell, he was attracted to both sides – but he preferred women. For a lot of reasons.

He wasn't going back down that road.

Especially not for someone like Sherlock Holmes. Gorgeous though he may be, and as undeniably sexy as he sounded speaking French, John had his limits. He'd defined those years ago, back in med school. Once had been enough.

And at least now he realised why he noticed so much about his boss. It had been surprising in part because it had been awhile since John's attention had been caught another man and in part because Sherlock was so far from what John would have defined as his type if he'd had a type for men.

Now he let it go, spilling the last of the water down the drain and putting the empty glass in the sink.

He walked back into the living room, leaving those thoughts to pour away with the water he hadn't finished. John glanced at Jamie again, doing a quick medical evaluation in the faint light that bled in from around the edges of the drapes on the windows. Jamie was pretty deeply asleep now, features relaxed, and the scars on his neck and face seemed somehow iridescent in the near darkness. They were still looking good – and he was months past any possibility of infection – but they'd be red for awhile, at least a year. John felt guilty at feeling relieved that his own scars weren't visible if he was dressed normally. If he were Jamie, he'd be pretty sick of people staring at him by now.

John went into the bathroom to shower and shave and by the time he was done, Jamie was up and making coffee. John shook away the nightmare and his musings and started the day over.

"Happy birthday," he said, coming into the kitchen. Jamie cast him a look over his shoulder and grinned in return. John took over breakfast making duties, ordering Jamie out of the kitchen and the mechanic went, rolling his eyes as he did so but still grinning. John waited until his friend was in the bathroom before fetching a small well hidden box and set it on the counter. He opened it and pulled out the mug inside.

It had been Tricia's idea, knowing how much Jamie hated his regimental mug. John grinned and shook his head at it, thinking now Jamie would have a new contender for the worst mug possible. John rinsed it quickly and then fished out his phone, turning on the camera option. He filled them each a cup of coffee and set his aside, picking up Jamie's and his phone when his friend came back into the kitchen.

Jamie stared at it a moment, his expression blank, then he closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips against the bridge of his nose, a grin playing on his lips. John snapped a picture and Jamie opened his eyes.

"What the _hell_ is that?" he mouthed and John caught it – he was getting a lot better at the lip reading with basic words since they'd moved in together.

"Happy birthday, Jamie," John said, extending it. Jamie groaned silently, his head dropping back, face turned toward the ceiling. He lowered his head again, pointing at the mug with mock accusation and John's grin widened.

"Tee's idea," John said.

Jamie just shook his head at the horrible mug with its pink and red hearts and bubbly "World's Best Soldier" message written on it. John's grin widened and he gestured gently with the mug. Jamie gave a sigh and reached for it, amused hazel eyes narrowing.

"To replace your regimental mug," John said and Jamie rolled his eyes. He took the coffee mug, turning it gently between his fingers, then shot John another glare that was lined with laughter.

"Bad," he mouthed.

John laughed.

"I'm glad you like it," he said and Jamie grimaced before taking a sip of the coffee. His expression told John that he was grateful the coffee wasn't terrible – but then, he'd made it himself, so he should know. Jamie pointed an index finger at John and shook his head. He took another sip, then went to set the mug aside, glancing back over his shoulder in an action that was long familiar to John now, looking to see where his laptop was.

"Wait," John said and Jamie looked back at him, expression quizzical now. "That's not it." He grinned. "You think we'd leave you with just that work of art? Hang on."

He disappeared into his bedroom and returned a moment later with a small box that was carefully wrapped and set it on the table. Jamie was still holding the horrible mug but set it down when John gestured to the gift.

"Now, really, happy birthday," he said.

Jamie sat down and tore off the wrapping with a little less precision than John had done, then stopped, staring at the small clear box inside.

"Open it all the way," John said.

Jamie's eyes darted up to him, stunned now instead of amused, then back down and he pried the plastic casing off, pulling the iPhone out carefully and turned it over. John grinned.

He'd got the idea from the phone Harry had leant him, but he knew this one would be a little more valued. He hadn't checked the engraving when it arrived, not wanting to open the casing, so he glanced over Jamie's shoulder now.

_To Jamie, from Tricia & John._

Jamie looked up at him, hazel eyes bright.

"It has one year prepaid on it already," John said. "I had it activated and everything when I bought it, and it comes with texting, including overseas texting, and my number and Tricia's number are set up for unlimited texting so you can talk to us whenever you want, as much as you want. It makes voice calls, too, of course. And there's a fifty pound credit on the apps store for you for whatever you want."

Jamie stared at him a moment longer, then pushed himself to his feet and bundled John into a brief, tight hug. John laughed, hugging back.

"Thank you," Jamie mouthed with obvious feeling. John smiled; he thought he could understand it. He knew Jamie had been planning on getting a new phone with a better plan and was glad he hadn't had the chance yet – his old phone and the chat client had been getting him through well enough, but before getting the job with Sherlock, he hadn't been able to afford to text Tricia very much. It wasn't much different than sending her an email, but it would make a difference when talking to John and in talking to her when she eventually came home. Now he didn't have to have his laptop on him all the time.

"You're welcome," John replied and finished making breakfast.

They ate and watched a football match being rebroadcast from Italy from the previous night and neither of them mentioned that they were both watching the clock, waiting for Tricia to call. She'd arranged to ring them at ten-thirty that morning London time, but the morning slipped past and John could see Jamie was starting to grow anxious. He felt the same tension settling into his shoulders so that when his phone rang a few minutes after noon, he fairly jumped for it, relief pouring through him. Jamie grabbed his new phone as well, calling up Tricia's number so he could text her while they talked.

"Hello!" Tricia's voice sounded from the other end of the line when John put it on speaker and he met Jamie's eyes, seeing his own relief mirrored there. "Happy birthdays! Sorry about the delay, it's been a bit mad here."

"Are you all right?" John demanded immediately.

"Johnny!" she replied and he heard the grin in her voice and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Is Jamie there?"

Jamie fired off a quick text.

"Oh, good, John gave you the phone already, brilliant. Happy birthday, both of you. Yes, I'm fine, everything's fine. It's – well, we had some unexpected news today and everyone's been running about like decapitated chickens since then."

"What is it?" John asked.

"We got new orders this morning. We're being transferred to Souter."

John and Jamie were both silent for a moment, staring at John's phone, then at each other.

"Kabul?" John asked.

Tricia laughed.

"I know you haven't forgotten where Souter is, John," she teased. "Or is it the almost-forty that's getting to you? Jamie, is he getting forgetful? Leaving his keys in the door? Leaving the gas on?"

Jamie texted something back and Tricia laughed. John shook his head; he didn't know what his friend had replied but it didn't matter.

_Kabul?_ he thought. _But – no. It couldn't be._

He remembered Sherlock asking only two days ago if Kabul was safer but shook off the thought. Even someone like Sherlock couldn't have an entire military unit transferred in two days.

Could he?

Surely not.

"When?" John asked.

"Two weeks," Tricia replied. "I don't know – they won't tell us why, just orders. Redeployment of resources, they say." She added a snort to that last comment but John could still hear the smile in her voice.

John grinned and Jamie's entire face lit up. John started to laugh, leaning back against the couch cushions.

"Brilliant!" he said, feeling some of the weight he'd always carried ease the smallest amount. He knew it wasn't gone – Kabul was comparatively safe, but even here in London, things could go wrong. But it was an improvement at least.

"But enough about me," Tricia insisted. "You know what it's like here, so that's boring. Tell me how you both are. How were your birthdays? How's the flat? How's London? Give me details – tell me everything."

_Let me live in London again just for a little bit,_ John heard unspoken but he refused to let that thought take hold, refused to let it bring down his spirits. She was going to Kabul. The realisation made his lips split into another grin and he glanced at Jamie, who was texting something, an equally wide grin on his face.

"Everything here is absolutely brilliant," he said and he felt, for the very first time that they'd spoken to her since they'd been sent back, that this was completely true.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock."<p>

"Mycroft."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes somewhat at the pleasant expression on his brother's face. It meant any moment now he was going to start gloating. He'd count it as a victory that Sherlock had come to see him because Sherlock never came unless he needed something.

He made a mental note to start doing so, but then remembered why he didn't. His eyes narrowed a bit further as he recalled that he almost never voluntarily saw his brother at all. He hadn't been lying to John – Gabriel's job entailed taking care of business that Sherlock found tedious. Mycroft was one of those details he disliked. It was unfortunate he could not send Gabriel to do this now. Unfortunate but unavoidable. Sherlock had no desire to have Doctor Watson lecture him about not following medical orders. Tolerating Mycroft was actually somewhat better than this.

"Mummy sends her love," Mycroft said, gesturing smoothly to the chairs opposite his desk. Sherlock bit down on a retort – he was not rising to his brother's baiting and he had spoken to their mother only a few days previous. He knew she sent her love. Mycroft always did this, attempted to make him feel guilty for things about which he should feel no guilt.

"I need you to do something for me," Sherlock said bluntly. Best just to get this over with. The less time he spent here, the happier he would be.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow in the way Sherlock hated. Sherlock knew full well Gabriel thought that same expression on Sherlock's face was cutting but he hadn't grown up with Mycroft. On his brother, it seemed overbearing and unbelievably smug.

"And what would you need me to do for you that you can't have done yourself?" Mycroft asked, sitting forward, lacing his fingers together.

_Oh, you're loving this, aren't you?_ Sherlock snarled to himself. For a moment, he considered leaving – he didn't have to do this, after all. But the thought of leaving it unfinished sat ill with him for reasons he couldn't identify at the moment. It would require some thought later, when he wasn't being put off by his brother. He knew he was never at his best when he had to talk to Mycroft and the knowledge chafed.

"I require the redeployment of a British military unit stationed at Camp Bastion in Helmand Province to Camp Souter in Kabul," Sherlock replied plainly.

This surprised Mycroft, which Sherlock counted as a minor victory.

"And which unit would this be?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock withdrew a file from his laptop bag and passed it over smoothly.

"All of the pertinent information is in there."

Mycroft took it and flipped it open, skimming his eyes over it in apparent disinterest, but Sherlock wasn't fooled.

"Well, I may be able to –"

"I need it done the day after tomorrow."

"What?" Mycroft asked, looking up quickly.

"Your heard me. The seventeenth."

Mycroft set the file down and regarded his brother.

"You want me to authorise the transfer of a military unit in Afghanistan in less than forty-eight hours?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I ask _why_?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Sherlock replied, switching his grip of the handle of the briefcase and pushing himself to his feet. He gave his brother a small and rather unpleasant smile then turned to leave. Mycroft would do it now, just out of sheer curiosity.

"Oh," Sherlock said, turning back, smile glinting again. "And I'll pass on your best to Mummy when I see her this weekend, shall I?"


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N:** This chapter isn't very nice. It's not meant to be. You are warned.

* * *

><p>Gabriel woke up to the sound of his phone and rolled over, managing to snag it from the nightstand without actually opening his eyes. He sighed as he picked it up then squinted himself awake enough to see that it was a text message from Mycroft.<p>

This woke him up more because Mycroft almost never contacted him even though Sherlock relied heavily on Gabriel to deal with the elder Holmes brother. Mycroft was obviously inclined to contact Sherlock instead and when he did contact Gabriel, he usually called rather than texted.

_Tell Sherlock it's done_, the message said.

Gabriel blinked at it then sighed. This meant Sherlock had actually requested something from Mycroft and that he was now refusing to talk to his brother in that obtuse way of his. Well, that wasn't surprising. More surprising was that Gabriel didn't know what "it" was, but he supposed he'd find out soon enough because Sherlock wasn't in the habit of telling Mycroft things and not telling Gabriel. Plus, he'd probably want to complain about the fact that he'd been forced to talk to his older brother about something.

_Well, I'd take Mycroft over Richard,_ Gabriel thought as he hit the reply button.

_All right_, he sent back and shut the phone off, tossing it lightly back on the bedside table. He drifted back to sleep for awhile then woke up again, sitting up to check his clock. It had been about three hours since Sandra had left for work, giving herself enough time to drop Sam back at her flat and change. He'd offered to take care of the dog for her, but she'd told him to wait because walking Sam or even taking her outside would be problematic.

He shuffled out of bed onto his crutches, yawning. It had been a week since John had put him on medical leave and he had to admit he was feeling better, less tired in general, although he was still sleeping more than he normally did. It was annoying but Sandra assured him it was normal and he felt better for hearing that from her. And she was good at keeping him awake, too. He grinned to himself and made his way into the bathroom, managing to shave and shower and not have it take over half an hour.

He changed into jeans and a short sleeved dress shirt. It was too easy to sit around in his pyjamas all day. Being dressed normally made him feel more like himself again, although he avoided wearing his work clothing so as not to feel like he should be working. Part of him still wanted to, because recuperating was boring, but he'd seen that look on Sherlock's face. His boss wasn't going to let him get away with that.

Because John Watson had said so.

Gabriel grinned again. For such a remarkably perceptive man and a proper genius, Sherlock was amazingly bad at understanding certain aspects of himself. Gabriel wondered if anyone else had noticed, but probably not, because no one else had been spending significant amounts of time in the same room with Sherlock and John Watson.

He settled himself on his couch and sighed, glancing around, bored. He wasn't bored when Sandra was there, but she had a job of her own to go to. She was on twelve-hour shifts at the moment, seven days on and seven days off, which meant that next week she'd be free. The thought made him grin. He was looking forward to that.

In the meantime, he needed something to do. Reading and watching telly were getting very old very fast and surfing the Internet more so. He thought of all the work he'd left unfinished and the fact that other people were probably finishing it for him and sighed. Some of it he'd been quite invested in and Sherlock would be annoyed as hell to have to deal with those lawyers from France.

_Well, nothing I can do about it_, he told himself, reaching for the remote. His phone rang unexpectedly and he sat back, picking it up off the arm of the couch. It was the security desk downstairs in the lobby; he'd had them patch his phone near the door into his mobile number so he didn't have to get up all the time.

"Mister Mitchell? Sir, you have a visitor. It's your sister."

Gabriel closed his eyes, pressing his left hand over his eyes.

_Crap_, he thought. He'd managed to go two blissful days without thinking of his brother and without any nightmares. The pleasant delusion that this would just go away and not be a problem vanished. If Marian were here now, a week after Cheryl had disposed of Richard, it meant she wasn't just here for a visit.

"Send her up, Sarah," he said, keeping his voice pleasant and fairly neutral.

"Yes, sir," the security woman replied and Gabriel rung off, staring at the phone a moment.

_Goddammit,_ he sighed to himself, then put the phone aside, heaving himself up onto his crutches and making his way to the door. He shut off the security system and unlocked the door, leaving it open a crack, and went back into the living room, sinking onto the couch again.

A few minutes later, he heard a hesitant knock and his sister calling his name. He steeled himself with a deep breath. He was going to need all of that skill for deception Sherlock had taught him years ago. And he was going to need to try to control his temper.

"In here!" he called back and heard footsteps and then Marian was standing the archway to his living room. Her appearance really did shock him – she was wan and red-eyed, her cheeks streaked with tears, her light brown hair pulled back into a hasty braid, wispy strands escaping about her face.

"Marian?" he asked, suddenly worried something might have happened to one of their parents. He rarely saw either of them – his father less so than his mother – but he didn't actually wish them ill, even if he didn't particularly get on with them.

"Gabe," Marian said, actually managing a small, shaky smile. He pushed himself to his feet on his crutches and limped over to her, eyes darting across her face.

"Marian, what happened?"

She bit her lip, meeting his eyes before letting her gaze slide away. She pressed her palms together hard, drawing a deep breath, then looked at him squarely again.

"Gabe, Richard's gone missing."

He froze for a moment, knowing she'd misread it entirely, as relief swept through him. Not one of their parents then.

_Thank God,_ he thought. _Thank God. _

"Oh," he managed, not entirely feigned surprise even though he knew this was coming. Even though he knew Richard wasn't actually missing but dead.

Marian's brow furrowed and she searched his face. Gabriel forestalled any protest on her part by saying:

"Come and sit down."

He needed to get off his feet anyway and she joined him on the couch, sitting down hesitantly beside him as if moving would somehow make things worse. Gabriel propped his injured leg up, feeling a faint flash of pain that made him angry. There she was, concerned for and crying about their older brother and she had no idea. For a moment he was tempted to tell her exactly what Richard had done but bit down on it hard. She hadn't entirely believed that Richard had hurt Gabriel before; she wasn't going to believe it now, not when she was upset about his disappearance.

"No one's seen him in a week," Marian said. "He was supposed to come round for dinner at Mum's two nights ago but he never showed up. She called me and I tried calling him, but we didn't get an answer. The police said we had to wait twenty-four hours and then they started investigating and no one he works with has seen him all week."

_Bet they didn't even think that was strange,_ Gabriel thought. He had no idea where his brother had been working – or at least where he'd been working legitimately, not for Jim – but it wasn't likely to have been a stellar place and his co-workers had probably pegged Richard as the type to take off.

"He hasn't been in his flat and his phone and keys and wallet are gone, too."

Gabriel was surprised to hear that his brother had had his own flat and hadn't actually been living with their mother, who had taken him in between prison sentences. As for his personal effects, Cheryl would have taken proper care of those.

"You haven't seen him, have you?" Marian asked, her voice small and quiet.

Anger flared in Gabriel – yes he had, but how dare she come around asking that? He felt himself tense without meaning to and sucked in a deep breath, trying to stay calm, but he could feel his temper straining despite his best efforts.

"Marian," he said, his voice slightly harder than he'd intended. "Have I seen him? Richard? Have I seen Richard?"

She winced slightly.

"I know you don't exactly get along –"

"No," Gabriel interjected. "You might say that. Or you might say he spent my whole life terrorising me because he's a bully and because he could. Have I seen him? Why the hell would I want to see him? If I did see him, I'd turn and go the other way and not look back. If he came here, I'd have our security people kick him the hell out."

Marian stared at him.

"He didn't –" she started, her voice taking on a slight edge. "He just teased you. It's not the same."

"Do you consider beating someone up teasing, Marian?" Gabriel snapped.

"He –"

"_Yes_ he did," Gabriel shot back. "You can keep denying it to yourself all you want, it doesn't mean it didn't happen. _I_ was there. Believe me, I remember. Teasing is what you get when people love each other. Bullying is what you get with Richard."

"He's your brother! Of course he loves you!"

Gabriel stared at her, genuinely shocked, searching her face. She believed that. She really did.

"Marian, he never even liked me. Our whole lives. Loves me? Hardly."

"You don't know –"

"Yes I bloody well do! I spent my whole life taking what he dished out on me because I was smaller and weaker than him and he wanted to hurt someone else when Dad laid into him! Dad was never fussed about you and me because you were the girl and I was the smart one but with Richard –"

"You were the smart one?" Marian interrupted, hazel eyes suddenly blazing.

"Sorry," Gabriel said hurriedly, wishing he hadn't said that.

"No, it's true, isn't it?" Marian snapped. "You always were and you bloody well knew it. You still know it. I just didn't think – I didn't think you were judging us for it."

"I'm not!" Gabriel replied hotly.

"Not me, no, maybe not," Marian said. "But Mum and Dad and Richard – so what am I? Do I get some special category all to myself because you think I'm okay? That I'm not as smart as you but maybe I'm not entirely stupid?"

"You are not stupid!" Gabriel shot back. "I never said that!"

"No, you don't have to. You have this swanky job and this swanky flat and make all this money and look how well you've done for yourself and you don't have to say anything at all."

"I work hard," Gabriel growled.

"So do I!" Marian shot back. "Only some posh bloke never offered me a job! What do you think, Gabe, what do you really think? I'm a secretary for a man who runs a travel agency. God, you must think it's pathetic and boring."

"What? Why? If you like it and you're happy with it, why would I think that?"

Marian swept an open arm to encompass the flat around her.

"Look at you! Even when you're hurt and off work, you're still wearing clothes that are worth more than what I make in a month! You just love this, don't you?"

"Yes," Gabriel snapped. "I love my job. And I love _you_. You're my sister, Marian!"

"And Richard's your brother! And he's missing!"

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, expression hard.

"Brothers don't do what Richard did to me, Marian. You can deny it all you want and I don't actually care if it makes you upset or if you have some stupid fond memories of him being your big brother and being all lovingly protective of you and making sure your boyfriends knew where they stood in high school and all of that. Do you have _any_ idea what it's like to be doing nothing more than studying with a male friend and have Richard make threatening comments? Do you know what it's like to try and stand up after someone's beaten the crap out of you? Do you know what it's like to have nightmares about someone in your family hurting you? No, no you don't, because you were fine, you were perfect, he didn't have problems with you."

She opened her mouth to say something, but Gabriel cut her off.

"You know what? So what if he's missing. He's a fucking low life and he probably got into some stupid trouble with some other fucking low life mates of his. He's been in trouble all his life, Marian, why stop now? Except – ha! – someone may have stopped it for him."

Marian stared at him, eyes bright, expression etched with disbelief.

"You _want_ him to be dead?" she demanded.

Gabriel rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Right now, it frankly wouldn't bother me," he said coldly.

"Jesus Christ, Gabe," she whispered.

"He stole from the one good job he ever had, Marian, and he went to gaol. Then he got released and assaulted an undercover cop. He assaulted me, too, but I didn't press charges _because he's my brother_. Which, in retrospect, was probably a bad decision."

"You –"

"What, do you think a victim shouldn't report a crime to the police? Bet the cops love that. Bet they're wasting their precious time now trying to find him when there's so many better things they could be doing. Who cares about some goddamn ex-convict?"

"I can't believe you," she said softly, her voice taut.

"Believe it," Gabriel replied, his voice hard edged. "He's spent his whole life hurting people. Maybe he pissed off the wrong person."

She stared at him and Gabriel met her gaze levelly. It was true, Richard had pissed off the wrong person. But she was never going to know and Cheryl had ensured he was never going to be found.

"I'm sorry if this upsets you," he made himself say, not because he was but because she was his sister. "But him being missing doesn't put me off. I don't care."

Marian stared at him, searching his face as if looking for some hint that he was lying.

"You really don't, do you?" she asked in a strained tone.

"No."

She closed her eyes, turning her face away, two translucent tears streaking down her cheeks.

"I just thought –"

"What did you think, Marian? That somehow this would make things better? That it would make me forget?"

He was unlikely to forget now or when he went to sleep next. Even dead, Richard would manage to drag out the nightmares again.

Marian pressed her open palms against her knees, eyes still closed, taking a deep and shuddering breath. She sat still for a moment, then opened her eyes again, looking at Gabriel as though she wanted something from him.

"I expected better from you," she whispered.

"Yes? Well, maybe we all should have expected better from _him_."

Marian opened her mouth as if to reply, then shut it again, hurt shining in her hazel eyes.

"If that's how you want it," she said.

"What makes you think I ever wanted any of this?"

She stared at him, expression suddenly hard, then pushed herself to her feet.

"At least do use the courtesy of letting us know if you do hear from him or see him," she said coldly. "Good-bye, Gabriel."

She adjusted the strap of her handbag against her shoulder and walked out without a backward glance, leaving Gabriel watching her go. He kept his silence, not wanting to call her back, not wanting to do anything except to have her leave. Whatever they both wanted from each other, they weren't going to get it. He was never going to feel badly that Richard was missing and when the police finally gave up on him and declared him dead, he wouldn't be bothered by that either. If that disappointed her, so be it. He wasn't wasting any more energy on his brother.

He heard the door click shut softly, the sound somehow sharp in the silence and he let out a deep breath, slumping back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. For a moment he felt nothing, then there was a dull pain in his leg.

_Yes, thanks, Richard,_ Gabriel thought, grimacing and pushing himself to his feet on his crutches. His arms felt tired already – not a good sign.

If Marian had come to see him, the police couldn't be far behind. Gabriel went back into his bedroom and transferred his antibiotics, his painkillers and his anti-inflammatories to the living room, where they'd be evident and visible. Then he went back and changed into his pyjamas again before taking all of his medications at once. Let them see an injured and recovering man, not a potential suspect.

He hoped it wasn't that Sergeant Donovan again but he suspected she was probably busy at the moment dealing with the suicide serial killer case. He was in luck; it was a detective he'd never met before and the painkillers had kicked in with their mind-numbing effects by the time the police arrived. He answered their questions as best he was able and he could see them mentally writing him off. He was barely in any condition to leave his flat, let alone abduct his brother.

When they left, Gabriel made himself eat something before stretching out on the couch again, bad leg propped on a pillow, and surrendered to the drugs, hoping the memory of his brother would leave him be for awhile.


	32. Chapter 32

"There! There," Sally Donovan said. "Freeze it right there."

She leaned forward, one hand on the back of the tech's chair to brace herself, and narrowed her eyes at the grainy black-and-white CCTV footage. A woman in clothing appearing only as light grey was standing outside of a cab, talking to the driver, one hand on the handle of her matching light grey wheeled case. The case that they still hadn't found. The case that they only knew about because Jennifer Wilson's husband had mentioned it. The case that might have had her phone in it, but by the time they knew her number to get the GPS signal, it had either been turned off or destroyed.

_Probably at the bottom of the Thames by now,_ she thought, giving her head a shake.

"Back it up slowly, let me see if I can get the cab number. There, stop right there."

She squinted more but the image was blurry and distant.

"Can you zoom in?"

"I could, if you wanted to see an even bigger blurry blob," the tech said. "That sort of thing only works in shows, Sergeant, not in real life. But… I think we have feed from another camera at a closer distance. Maybe even a better angle, if we're lucky."

Donovan drummed her fingers on the back of his chair while he worked, receiving a scowl.

"Sorry," she said, pulling her hand away, taking a deep breath to reassert her patience. They were so close, so bloody close. All four victims had travelled by cab but it had taken time to pin that down, because the second victim had been found with his Oyster card on him and it had registered a trip shortly before he died.

He'd also been left in an abandoned building in winter, so time of death had been harder to pin down. It looked now like the tube ride had been several hours before he'd died, which lined up more or less with the patchy time line they'd been able to establish for him.

But this… the anonymous text had led them to the first victim's intended trip the day he'd died, but they'd initially run up against a dead end there. The cab he'd taken hadn't been picked up at the right angle on any camera– one of those maddening circumstances that lined up against them. They knew he'd stopped to do some shopping – flowers for his mistress – and but it appeared the cabbie had deliberately taken him to an area short on cameras. It was frustrating to know there were still areas of London that weren't covered; she recognised that cameras everywhere were intrusive but it seriously hindered her work.

"Got it," the tech said.

"Let's see," Donovan replied and he advanced the footage forward frame by frame until the cab number was visible. Donovan grabbed a pen and paper and scrawled it down.

"Cab 71126. Brilliant, Jason, perfect. Leave it there, I have to get the DI. Stay here."

She ran out, jogging down the corridors and up one flight of stairs, knocking perfunctorily on the door to her boss' office before pushing it open. Lestrade was sitting behind his desk and looked up at her abrupt intrusion in surprise. Donovan glanced at him and at the man sitting across from him – blast, it was that weasel, Anderson. She gave him a cool nod and he quirked an eyebrow at her in a way that made her want to show him what the years of kickboxing had taught her.

But she settled for ignoring him, returning her attention to Lestrade.

"Sorry, sir, but we've got him. The cabbie."

Without a word to the Crown Prosecutor, Lestrade was up and circling his desk, following her out of his office. Jason, the tech, looked up in surprise when his workroom was invaded but Donovan ignored him, pointing to the screen. Lestrade looked over the tech's shoulder, frowning in concentration for a moment before his face split in a triumphant grin.

"Got you, you bastard," he muttered. "Right, Donovan, chase it down. Find out who he is and where the hell he is now. Get his dispatchers to send us his GPS tracking information – we have to find out where he is _right now_. For all we know, he's picking another victim as we speak. Where the hell is everyone else?"

"Still upstairs, sir," Donovan said.

"Right," Lestrade said. "Come with me. I'm going to get an arrest warrant from that Anderson and a search warrant for our cabbie's car and his home. We're going to need a CO19 team – I don't want anyone going near him that isn't kitted out. Make sure they give you some gear, Sally. I don't want you bringing him down, but I want you making the arrest. This is your baby."

"You sure, sir?"

"Damn right I'm sure," Lestrade replied. "Just stay behind the guys with the shields in case he turns out to be trigger happy, too. Whoever Mister I-don't-want-to-be-involved is, he chose you to spearhead this."

"Or Ms.," Donovan said.

Lestrade shot her a puzzled look, then grinned.

"Ha, yes, good point. Or Ms. Whoever-it-is. But you still did all the legwork. I'm not seeing anyone else get the credit."

Donovan nodded and slipped into her desk, picking up her phone. Lestrade was already barking orders and Anderson was emerging from the DI's office with a quizzical look on his wholly unpleasant face. Donovan carefully avoided his eyes, focusing instead on the call she was making.

She pulled out her mobile and set it in front of her, opening the text messages. She'd received another just last night – early this morning, rather – that instructed her not to mention they were looking into cabs on an anonymous tip but to claim it was based on patient police work. She wondered if their mystery informant knew that wading through the sea of tips also constituted patient police work.

But whoever he or she was, they didn't want to be involved, not even peripherally. They really were out to let her take the credit and Donovan didn't really care one way or another. It wasn't the commendations that were important, it was getting this guy off the street.

She refocused when a dispatcher answered the phone.

"Yes, hello. This is Sergeant Sally Donovan with the Metropolitan Police. I need an immediate trace on one of your cabs. Car number 71126."

* * *

><p>John was glad he was used to the unpredictable demands of being an army doctor; it made his life at the moment much easier. Sherlock had a tendency to simply call him and announce that John was needed, although he'd more or less confined this to daylight hours if not business hours. So far.<p>

The doctor had rung Gabriel and gone round that morning, checking on the younger man's injury. Gabriel had been nearly silent the entire time, his face an indifferent mask, but the tight line of his jaw told John that this wasn't just boredom. He'd enquired as to what the problem was – he _was_ a doctor, after all – but the younger man had refused to speak about it, saying he was simply tired. John had heard that lie before from many patients but let it go; there was a time and a place to force an issue.

He'd actually been called to his see his second ever patient: a seven-month-old baby girl who was the daughter of two of Sherlock's employees, Simone Fitzhugh and Alan Edgar. John didn't ask what they did for Sherlock and they didn't volunteer any information. He was still of the opinion that he was better off with in ignorance. Their daughter, Emma, was learning to crawl and had managed to take a tumble off the couch. John examined her carefully but babies were fairly resilient and her crying subsided while he was there. No broken bones, although he thought she'd develop a bump on her forehead and had them put ice on it. He wrote a prescription for an x-ray just in case and made a note to call the clinic and have these x-rays transferred to him as well. He wished the imaging technicians luck with dealing with a small baby.

Shortly after noon, Sherlock called to inform John he was bringing a car round to get him, so John made himself more presentable, which really just involved running a comb through his hair and making sure he had no bits of his lunch in his teeth. Sherlock didn't seem too fussed about what John wore, as long as it was clean and respectable. He didn't suppose there was a dress code for criminal activity.

He was waiting outside when the customary black Mercedes rolled to a smooth stop and Gerald got out, holding the door open for him. John slipped inside and Sherlock looked up from his phone, giving him a bright smile. John ignored the fact that this made the other man look stunning and told himself that "stunning" was a word that really should only be applied to women in dresses that looked exceptionally good on them.

"'Afternoon, Sherlock," he greeted.

"Hello, John. I trust your day off yesterday was pleasant?"

"Yeah, very good, yes," John said as the car pulled smoothly back into traffic. "I don't suppose –"

"I'll be out of the city this weekend," Sherlock interrupted, resting his phone on his knee. "As such, I won't require your services for myself, but please continue to perform your duties as a physician. I'd appreciate if you alerted me if Emma Fitzhugh's x-rays are cause for concern."

"How did –" John started, then cut himself off with a shake of his head. "Yeah, of course." He paused, catching his lower lip between his teeth. "Have a big heist planned?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly and he gave John a quizzical look, then that same bright smile lit his face again and he laughed in what sounded like genuine appreciation.

"No, John, but I do admire your imagination. I'm going to visit my mother."

John blinked and stared in surprise. Sherlock's lips quirked again, dry amusement touching his eyes.

"Ah, do you imagine that successful criminals don't have parents? Well, that is true of some – it's certainly true of Jim, that was of his own devising – but I did not spring out of the ground fully formed with a shadowy multinational empire at my feet. I do have two parents, both of whom are quite alive and well. I'm rather close with my mother, for all that the expression on your face tells me you find that difficult to believe."

"Sorry," John said. "I just – does she know what you do?"

"No idea," Sherlock replied with an oddly pleased expression. "I suspect so, but she has always been as enigmatic as she is resourceful. I have absolutely no sense whatsoever of how much she knows about my work."

"And – you're all right with that?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock said. "It's endlessly fascinating."

John opened his mouth to say something and then realised he had nothing to say. He closed his mouth again, looking away at the buildings sliding past.

"Can I ask you something?" he enquired finally.

"You may ask me anything you wish," Sherlock said smoothly, checking his phone again briefly. "However, that does not guarantee that an answer."

"We found out yesterday that our old unit is being transferred to Souter, in Kabul."

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows up.

"Favourable news, I assume, but I must point out that this is not a question, John."

John sighed.

"The other day, you asked if Helmand Province was dangerous and I told you it was and that places like Kabul were safer."

"I do recall, but once again, not a question."

"Did you have anything to do with it?"

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then broke into a grin, turning his face away and chuckling at the window before looking back.

"John, I'm flattered by your obviously high opinion of me and normally it would be in my best interest not to dissuade you from it but do you truly believe that I'm capable of having a British military unit stationed in another country – a warzone no less – transferred at a moment's notice?"

"Well –" John started. "You're pretty resourceful, too."

"Mm, I am at that, aren't I? And I certainly have the trappings to show for it, but the answer is no, I did not do it. I have no connections in Afghanistan, as I told you, nor do I command any influence with the military."

He smiled at John's slightly deflated expression.

"I am a firm believer in coincidence, John. There are far too many people in the world for coincidences not to occur on a regular basis. What if Gabriel had not been shot? What if Harriet had not owed us money? What if _you_ had not been shot? What if your former unit had been transferred two weeks from now, or a month? Would you still imagine I'd played a role in it?"

"I suppose not," John admitted. Still, he felt disappointed. It had fit so well – the announcement had come on Jamie's birthday, only two days after John had mentioned Kabul to Sherlock. But, of course transfers took time. These things didn't happen in two days.

He sighed and Sherlock chuckled again, then glanced back down at his phone. His expression froze but before John could ask if he was all right, he leaned forward, sliding the small glass pane that separated them from Gerald.

"Gerald, pull over," he ordered and the driver did so. The car stopped fluidly and Sherlock pushed his door open, casting a glance at John over his shoulder.

"With me," he snapped and John scrambled out, clicking the door shut behind him. Sherlock glanced around quickly and John was sure he'd ascertained where they were in less than a second, if he hadn't already been keeping track. He set off at a fast pace toward a pub and John lost a step when he realised where they were going.

"Come on, John!" he heard and picked up his feet, jogging after his boss, wondering what the hell was going on.

He had to stop when he stepped inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The place was fairly deserted since it was early afternoon and still February – not exactly prime tourist season. A few patrons were having lunch and turned to look at them when Sherlock strode across the room to the bar, commanding all the attention with his tall frame and billowing coat.

"Put it on BBC One," he said as John caught up with him at the counter.

"What?" the bartender asked.

"BBC One, put the telly on BBC One!"

The bartender stared at him another moment and John heard Sherlock give a soft growl that probably hadn't reached anyone else's ears. Then the man shrugged and fished out the remote and changed the channel. Sherlock's head swivelled to it immediately and John looked up to see what the big deal was.

" – Haven't heard anything official but unconfirmed reports suggest that the police have just arrested London cab driver Jeffrey Wells in connection with the so-called serial suicide murders. These suicides claimed the lives of four victims in London within the last six months, including Sir Jeffrey Patterson in October of last year."

John heard the shuffle of some of the other patrons as they also shifted their attention to the screen. The view behind the news reporter was of a non-descript flat on a non-descript street, the low grey sky and the cold rain making everything seem dull. On any other day it would have been unremarkable but now it was cordoned off and surrounded by flashing blue lights and bright yellow jackets. John could see a couple of constables keeping the growing crowd of onlookers at bay.

The reporter turned and the camera panned past her, focusing in on the entrance to the flat.

"It looks like they're bringing Wells out now," John heard her say. "Still no official word from Detective Inspector Lestrade or the team that has been running the investigation. If Wells is connected to these deaths, it remains to be seen how he managed to stage four suicides and why. All the alleged victims were found in places they had no reason to be and appeared to have taken self-administered poison. The police issued a statement last month supporting the possibility of a connection – Here's Detective Inspector Lestrade now –"

"No, no, we have no comment at this time, I'm sorry, please stand back –"

John felt his eyes widen in shock when he recognised the DI and the policewoman behind him as the ones who had been in Gabriel's flat.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. "Well done, Sergeant Donovan."

"A bloody cabbie?" someone at one of the tables.

"Who do we trust even if we don't know them?" Sherlock whispered, so low that John could just hear him. "Who can move through a crowd unseen?"

"God," said a woman sitting beside John at the bar, shuddering slightly. "Creepy."

"Clever," Sherlock murmured in reply.

John glanced up at him and saw a small smile playing on his lips. He narrowed his eyes slightly, certain Sherlock could tell where his gaze was, but his boss didn't turn his attention from the television screen where Wells was now being loaded into the back of a police car.

_Coincidence?_ John thought. _Then it must follow him around like he's a bloody magnet for it._


	33. Chapter 33

"_I'd like to teach the world to sing, In perfect harmony, I'd like to build the world a home _ - oh, no, I wouldn't like that, not really. Far too much work. All those wasted resources and blisters and calluses. Don't you think?"

"Yes, sir."

"But teaching them to sing – mm, yes, I think so. So much discord, Sebastian, too much, really. We could remove everyone who couldn't sing or wouldn't learn, get rid of them – poof! Can you sing?"

"I don't know, sir. I've never tried."

"Never tried? Never tired! How could you never have tried? Humming? Whistling? A little ditty to pass the time while doing some tedious chore? That's what people do, isn't it? I can't remember the last time I did a tedious chore."

"I suppose so, sir, yes. But I try to avoid making unnecessary noise. It's a bad habit. Not one that should be developed when one is an assassin."

"Excellent point, Sebastian. It wouldn't do to be overheard whistling some jaunty little tune while disposing of a body, would it?"

"No, sir."

"Does the girl with the gun sing, I wonder?"

"I don't know. She might."

"Hmm, aren't you two close? You seem close. I dislike you being close with one of Sherlock's people, you know. It could lead to… complications. You know how I feel about complications."

"Yes, I do. I wouldn't say close, sir, no. Perhaps – that we have a professional rapport."

"Rapport! I do love that word, don't you? _Rapport_. So very French – it just rolls from the back of the throat and off the tongue. _Rrrrrapport._ An understanding, an affinity, a connection. A harmony, if you will. Doesn't that just bring us back to singing? You've never tried? Even as a child? A-B-C or _Alouette_ or one of those other _boring_ children's songs? Why a song about plucking a bird, do you think, Sebastian? Are we making little madmen? I could really do without the competition."

"I don't know, sir. And if I did sing those children's songs, I don't remember it."

"Hmm, dispensing with the useless information – always tricky, in case it becomes useful again and then where does that leave you? Forgetting if you can sing! Try singing for me, Sebastian. But do it well, or else I may have to shoot you."

A cocked eyebrow at that and a level look. The gun levelled, too, Sebastian in the sights. Was it loaded? Uncertain. Could one tell by the weight? Sebastian and the girl with the gun maybe. Something to look into, that. Gun weights and the _professional rapport._ Could get messy. He didn't do messy. Hands clean, always the best policy.

"Oh come on!"

Gun down, quick smile.

"What shall we sing, Sebastian? I'm feeling – plucky! Am I? I am indeed! What do people sing these days? Oh, but you wouldn't know, would you? A little light opera, perhaps? Do you know any? Mozart? Verdi?"

"I'm afraid I don't speak German or Italian well enough, sir."

A sigh, slouching down in the chair.

"Oh, very well. Choose something of your own then. An assassin's shanty? Do they have those?"

"Sir!"

A sharp knock on the door and he straightened himself in his seat, irritation flashing like a wave, like a flood, but features smoothed over. Crisis in that voice, urgency and worry – would he be shot? Maybe. Who had said "don't shoot the messenger"? Why not? It solved so many problems. But then no one wanted to bring bad news – he couldn't argue with that if there was no bad news to be had, but the world ran on bad news.

He was generally the cause.

A bribe, a faked painting, a vehicle crash, a missing person, a murder, an explosion. Explosions were his favourite. Light and colour and noise – noise like music.

And now Sebastian wouldn't have time to sing.

Another sigh.

"Yes, what is it?"

The door was pushed open, a young man slipped into the office, hesitant, afraid, noting the gun that was spinning on the desk, spinning around one index finger. Loaded or unloaded? He still had no idea.

"Yes?" Again, a prompt. Why couldn't people think for themselves? Instructions, they all needed such tedious instructions, like holding hands with infants, ensuring they didn't play in traffic, that they chewed their food before swallowing. Following them about, cleaning up their messes.

But that was what he did.

He grinned.

"Sorry, sir. It's Jeff Wells, sir. He's been arrested."

"Jeff Wells? Sebastian, do we know a Jeff Wells?"

"Yes, sir. The cabbie. The one staging the suicides."

"_Oooooh,_ Jeffrey, my good friend Jeffrey! Funny little man, funny little cabbie and oh, such a _proper_ genius! Wrong! Not a proper genius if the police caught him. Pity – he was doing so well. Four people! Well, I suppose that counts as doing well from all the way down there. You. Go."

The door almost slammed shut, not quite, such a discordant sound. Not a harmony, no.

"Instructions, sir?"

"Quiet."

The BBC news page had it splashed as the headline and the details and conjectures and rumours and we-have-been-informed-thats. All talk, so little substance but the truth, yes, the truth was in there, visible as grain only but it would grow, become a mountain, evidence would be found, would be pinned, would stick, would begin to wind its way back. A little game to alleviate the boredom, boredom for him, boredom for dear Jeffrey. No more boredom now, not for the cabbie with his funny little hat and crooked teeth.

Pictures: the police and Jeffrey, the cab, the woman in the pink suit. Tedious.

Loose ends.

Untidy.

"Clean this up, Sebastian."

"Gladly, sir."

"And the children. Repayment for being caught. The children first."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

Silence when Sebastian was gone and he filled this with song for a little while.

* * *

><p>At eight am sharp, John was waiting on the pavement outside his flat, his physician's bag in his left hand, his right hand bundled into his coat pocket against the cold. He moved to zip up his jacket but that familiar black Mercedes – one of at least eight, according to Jamie – pulled up and stopped smoothly. John wondered if he'd ever get used to having the door opened for him with such refined calm. It was a far cry from opened Humvee doors and shouts of 'get the hell in now!' that he was used to from Afghanistan.<p>

"Ah, John, good morning," Sherlock said with a smile. John settled his bag on the floor at his feet and greeted his boss who was sipping coffee from a gleaming stainless steel travel mug with his company's logo emblazoned on it. The image was a bit disconcerting – but John supposed that since he did do legitimate business then he probably had a marketing department that designed these sorts of things for promotional purposes. It was strange to think about.

"'Morning, Sherlock," John replied, buckling himself in. Sherlock raked his eyes over him then frowned. "Something wrong?"

John was getting used to the appraising looks Sherlock gave him and was learning to ignore them. If he'd learned anything about his eccentric boss it was that he evaluated people as easily as he breathed. John was certain this was all filed away in that razor-sharp mind and could be called up at a moment's notice. His ability to remember names was staggering – not just the names of his clients, which was only good business practice, but of their families. More than once, he'd heard Sherlock enquire solicitously about children or spouses, all with apparently genuine interest. John couldn't tell if that was faked or not. He'd never seen anyone with that much inherent acting ability in his life. If the directors for the Royal Shakespeare Company knew what they were missing, they'd probably cry themselves to sleep every night.

John felt like Sherlock's assessment of him was always a bit more but he couldn't put his finger on why. Well, whatever the madman was thinking, he'd either have to spell it out or be content to keep it to himself. John hoped he wasn't being considered for a permanent career change. Not only did he want to stop being a doctor, he didn't want to take up being a professional criminal. He had enough ethical issues with this whole business as it was and he didn't think he'd be able to resist turning over some of Sherlock's clients to the police.

Sherlock didn't answer him, but pulled out his phone.

"Tina? Reschedule all my morning meetings for this afternoon or early next week – make sure Ms. Carter has first priority for this afternoon, please. Yes, that's right. Thank you."

He rung off and John gave him a puzzled look.

"What's going on?" John asked.

Sherlock kept on ignoring him and leaned forward, sliding open the small glass pane that separated them from Gerald. "Gerald, to Pierre's, please."

"Yes, sir," Gerald said and Sherlock slid the glass closed again.

"Who's Pierre?" John asked.

"My tailor," Sherlock replied.

John frowned, confused.

"What, you're getting a new suit and you need me to come with you for that? I don't think I'm exactly an expert."

Sherlock snorted, amusement in his light grey eyes.

"Clearly," he replied. "I value your medical opinion but in matters of fashion sense, I prefer my own judgments. And, as much as I appreciate someone who can wear fuzzy jumpers well, you need a suit."

"Fuzzy?" John asked.

"Snug, warm, whatever adjective you prefer," Sherlock said, waving a hand.

"And I have a suit," John said. "If you need me to wear it, you only have to say so."

Sherlock snorted again, this time much more derisively, but there was a hint of a smile curling at the edges of his lips.

"A _real_ suit, John. At least two, in fact. And not some bargain basement off-the-rack nonsense."

"I paid almost two hundred quid for my suit," John said, bristling slightly.

Sherlock glanced up from his phone, giving him a look of genuine surprise.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Is that – is that all? Isn't that enough?"

"Hardly. You should be spending at very least eight hundred pounds for a made-to-measure suit. Bespoke would be preferable although somewhat more expensive."

"Eight hundred pounds? I can't afford that!"

"Can't you?" Sherlock murmured. "I'm fairly sure I remember how much I pay you."

"Yes, and I've worked for you less than a month," John replied. "It's not like I've saved up a lot of money yet."

"Well, then, I'm sure we can come to some arrangement," Sherlock said. "It's a simple enough matter to write it off as a business expense."

"Why do I even need a suit?" John asked.

"I anticipate at least one meeting in the next two weeks in which it is vital that you are better dressed than the client."

"Why?"

Sherlock didn't answer, only cocked an eyebrow and John sighed. He thought about himself as he had been only a few weeks ago and wished he could send a warning back in time that things were about to get very strange. If he weren't a doctor he'd bemoan Gabriel's enforced leave, since that was the reason he had found himself in this bizarre situation.

Pierre's turned out to be a very small establishment, but by the looks of the fabric on restrained display and the fact that they had to ring to be admitted, it was probably also very exclusive. And expensive. John felt like he ought to be paying just to be breathing in there but the tailor didn't seem to notice.

He was a middle-aged Frenchman, John's height, but thin and wiry, buzzing with energy. He greeted Sherlock with an obvious enthusiasm that made sense of John – if a man was willing to drop several thousand pounds in one go on a single suit, then it was in the tailor's best interest to please that man. Sherlock and Pierre spoke in rapid French, the tailor often overriding Sherlock's words and the younger man would actually pause to let him speak. The tailor circled John, then gripped him by the upper arms – avoiding his shoulder, John noted – his eyes sweeping over him even more critically than Sherlock's ever had. He said something else in French to Sherlock, nodded, and then clicked his tongue pensively.

"Strip and on the platform," the Frenchman said, switching abruptly to English.

"What?" John asked, startled.

"Your clothes, _monsieur_, take off your clothes! Undergarments on, of course."

John looked at Sherlock for help, but his boss just extended a long-fingered hand to the tailor's platform and raised an eyebrow.

"You're bloody kidding, right?" John demanded.

"How do you expect him to measure you otherwise?"

"With my clothes on!" John shot back.

"Measure you properly," Sherlock sighed. "Come now, John. You were in the army. Surely being in your boxer shorts in a building in which they are only two other people is far less exposure than you encountered in Afghanistan."

"Yes, but –" John started, then cut himself off.

"But what?"

"None of them were my bosses."

"No? No superior officers? Not ever? It's a suit fitting, John, not a strip show. Pierre is a professional – you are certainly not the first man he's measured."

John stared at him. He was presented with a sudden mental image of Sherlock stripped down to his underwear to be measured and fitted. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to dispel this picture.

"If it helps, I can turn my back," Sherlock said with a grin.

"Oh, Lord," John sighed. "My life is so bloody weird. Fine."

Without further comment, he disrobed until he was in his socks and boxers – how Sherlock knew he was wearing boxers he didn't even want to contemplate. John thought he'd be cold but the shop was fairly warm, comfortable enough even in his dressed down state.

He stood stock-still, almost at attention except with his arms extended. The tailor moved around him fluidly, speaking in French to Sherlock the entire time. John tried to ignore the sound of Sherlock's voice in French _and_ the fact that he himself was mostly naked. He kept his eyes focused firmly in front of him and made himself think of anything else – the chores he had to do this weekend, the medical things he had to follow up on, the items he had to purchase for Tricia's care package, anything at all.

Different fabrics and colours were held up for inspection against his skin and John glanced down at them when this happened. Sherlock was standing just off to one side, arms folded, eyes narrowed in concentration. He argued in rapid French about something and Pierre argued back and John wished he'd done more than one cursory course in secondary school from which he could remember nothing. He thought he could probably manage a decent _bonjour_, but nothing near the specialised vocabulary he'd need to follow this.

"One basic black and one navy blue. What do you think, John?"

John refocused.

"Ah, sounds good."

"The black in wool, I think, and the blue in a wool-silk blend. Yes?"

John sighed.

"Look, I don't know. Whatever you think is best."

Sherlock nodded to Pierre and they were off arguing about something else. After a few minutes, the tailor vanished into the back room, leaving John and Sherlock momentarily alone. John became aware that Sherlock was regarding him thoughtfully and frowned.

"What?" he asked.

"May I look at your scar?"

John was startled; that certainly wasn't what he'd been expecting. He couldn't say what he thought he'd been expecting and given the strangeness of the whole morning, maybe it wasn't so out of place.

"Fine," he said stiffly, wondering why Sherlock even cared.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, then clasped his hands behind his back in a very clear indication he was not going to touch John. John relaxed somewhat – he hated anyone touching his scar. Sherlock stepped toward him but not too closely, leaning forward a bit. John dropped his arms with a sigh and Sherlock studied the smooth, reddened skin with an expression of genuine interest. John glanced away, catching his own reflection in the mirror.

_So bloody weird_, he told himself.

Sherlock circled around him and John kept a sharp eye on his boss' movements in the mirror.

"Was it a through and through?" Sherlock asked. John was startled for a moment by the medical terminology then realised Sherlock probably knew the word from Gabriel's wound.

"Yes," he said.

"She's very skilled."

"Who is?" John asked.

"Your surgeon."

John drew in a sharp breath.

"I accessed your medical files along with your military records. Another reason I know Doctor Remsen's name."

"She's very good, yes," John replied stiffly. Sherlock only nodded vaguely, eyes still on the scars.

"Is the red colour common?" he asked. "I thought scars were white."

"On white people they're white," John said. "But they'll be red for about a year, then they'll fade. Surgery scars are like that."

"Hmm," Sherlock said noncommittally then moved away moments before Pierre came back, carrying some bolts of cloths for Sherlock's inspection. Pierre showed them to John as well, but the doctor got the feeling this was perfunctory and his opinion didn't actually matter. Sherlock and Pierre argued for a few more minutes, then Sherlock looked up.

"Oh, you can get dressed again," he said, as if he'd just remembered to say this. John smoothed a glare from his face and pulled his clothes back on in a hurry, feeling warmth and relief as he did so. Neither other man was paying him any attention, sorting out some details.

"Perfect," Sherlock finally said. "Tuesday then. Come on, John, let's go. Work to do."

"That's it?" John asked.

"You'll be fitted in the suits again on Tuesday and they'll be ready by Thursday. That should do nicely in terms of timing."

"Who exactly are we going to see that I need to be all dressed up?"

"Hmm," Sherlock said as he slipped into the car, Gerald holding the door for them. "The less you know at the moment, the better." He flashed John one his bright grins as John settled onto the seat. "Don't look so concerned, John. It won't be that bad."


	34. Chapter 34

John knew he shouldn't have been doing it and he knew he should have been paying more attention, but he'd been distracted. Jamie had gone out to purchase some gin and more supplies for the open box that currently lay on the kitchen table. They had always pooled their meagre pensions to send Tricia care packages – now that they both had jobs, the packages were bigger and more frequent and filled with better things. John had made sure to send Harry a bit of money to include things for Tricia when he'd been overseas, since her family was almost non-existent. She'd lost her brother as a teenager then her mother several years afterwards and her father's health had been in decline since. He was living in a home now, suffering from the steady progression of dementia. John remembered the first day Tricia had spoken to her father on the phone and he hadn't remembered who she was. John had bundled her into his arms and held on for a long time.

He'd been packing the box and had stopped to take a break in order not to think about it anymore. He'd set himself to cleaning the bathroom, doing something mundane and physical to distract himself. The banality of the job helped and he'd put on some music, turning the volume on his phone up as far as it would go. It still wasn't that loud, but he'd missed the sound of the door to the flat opening and closing and of course there was no ringing "hello!" to announce Jamie's return.

In a nostalgic mood he couldn't quite shake, John had put on a specific song on repeat and was listening to the familiar voice and lyrics when a slight movement or a change in the pattern of light out of the corner of his eye made him pause. He turned his head slowly, aware that he'd been caught, and chastised himself for his stupidity – he'd never wanted Jamie to hear this.

Jamie was standing frozen in the hallway, an odd look on his face; not quite shock, perhaps a mixture between shock and wonder. He was staring at John's phone, but when the doctor made to grab the phone to turn it off, the mechanic held out a hand fast, shaking his head. John kept his hand outstretched for a moment before dropping it slowly.

"I'm sorry –" he started but Jamie shook his head again, eyes bright.

"That's me," he mouthed and John understood it mostly because he'd been expecting it.

"Yeah," John sighed.

Jamie's brow furrowed slightly and he stepped into the doorway, eyes still trained on the phone, listening to the recording of himself. It wasn't the best, because it had been taken on Tricia's phone and there were other noises in the background, but Jamie's voice was clearly audible in the foreground.

Jamie picked up John's phone carefully, disbelief still written on his features.

"How did you get this?" he asked – at least, that's what John thought he asked.

"Did you just ask me how?" John asked in return and Jamie nodded. The recording ended and the mechanic unlocked the phone and paused it. There was a slight hesitation in his movements, like he didn't want to do so.

John blew a sigh between his lips.

"It's really stupid – I'm sorry," he said.

Jamie frowned, then opened John's texting and wrote something in an unaddressed text message, holding it up.

_Why are you sorry?_

John glanced away, tossing the sponge in the sink.

"Because it was – childish. We –" he sighed again, shaking his head, glancing away momentarily. "I overheard you singing in the shower and had Tricia record it on her phone. It was funny – well, we thought it was funny then. It was right at the beginning of October. We were going to play it for you and tease you but never had the chance and then –"

And then the gunshot and the explosion and the confusion and the pain and the sudden return to England.

John remembered the day so clearly. He'd been crouched outside the showers, the ones the mechanics used when coming off duty if they were covered in oil and grease, which they always were. Even before he'd started working again, Jamie had still had small oil stains embedded around his fingernails he couldn't get rid of. John had been pressing the back of a hand into his mouth to keep from laughing and Tricia had been grinning, holding her phone close enough to the high window that was really just a rough rectangle cut into the stone wall. She'd been standing with her back flattened against the sun-drenched wall so that Jamie could not see her.

He'd always had a tendency to sing when working, unless they were out on patrol where noise would draw attention to them. But in Bastion itself, it was rare that John would catch Jamie working without hearing at least a soft tune being sung to himself. Even when he was alone, Jamie sang like someone was listening, carrying the tune properly and not slurring any of the words or skipping over any of the lyrics.

This time, they'd caught him singing 'Scotland the Brave', which John had heard the previous year on St. Andrew's Day. In a British camp the size of Bastion, there was always someone with a set of pipes or a guitar who could accompany him at parties or get togethers, as well as other singers. Live music was not wanting in the war zone.

They had recorded this without his knowledge and then Tricia had forgotten about it in the aftermath of the attack which had sent both John and Jamie home to England. She'd come across it shortly before Christmas and had emailed it to John who had kept it to himself.

Until now.

Jamie was typing something else on John's phone. John waited apprehensively, knowing if he was going to get an ass kicking that he deserved it.

_Jesus, can't take you two anywhere_, Jamie had written and he gave John a grin. John rolled his eyes but relaxed slightly, bracing himself with one hand against the counter. He watched Jamie email himself the file then type something else.

_Wish you'd told me earlier._

"I wasn't sure…"

_I know. It's fine, John, most of the time anyway. Could be worse._

John sighed.

"Yeah, but it could be better, too. Everyone always says 'it could be worse'. Like we need to feel guilty about not liking the way things are."

Jamie shrugged and grinned.

_Yeah, well, I'm Catholic. Guilt is what we do._

John laughed, feeling the tension drain out of him, and Jamie grinned.

_I was pretty damn good, wasn't I?_

"Yeah, Jamie, yeah. You were brilliant."

Jamie flashed him another grin and put the phone back on the counter. He made a gesture that clearly indicated John should get back to work and the doctor rolled his eyes and shook his head with a smile. Jamie chuckled silently and John listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall and into the kitchen where the care package was waiting to be finished and wrapped.

* * *

><p>The knock at the door startled Gabriel and he looked up, frowning slightly. He couldn't imagine who it was – Sandra was working night shifts for her last three scheduled days and it was nearly eleven pm, not exactly normal visiting hours. He supposed he should be sleeping but he was getting sick of that. He'd resorted to watching telly, some BBC show about people looking for homes outside the city. He couldn't imagine wanting to leave London. He couldn't see the appeal of the countryside. All of that quiet solitude struck him as boring.<p>

It _was_ boring. He felt as if that very atmosphere had invaded his flat.

The knock came again and he blinked, realising he was still sitting down. He hefted himself onto his crutches and hobbled to the door, peering through the peephole.

Sherlock was standing in the corridor, looking impatient.

Gabriel frowned again and drew away, confused. Since when did Sherlock knock? Sherlock never knocked on his flat door, he simply strode in as if he owned the place, which – point of fact – he did. The idea of privacy and personal space had never been especially important to him when it came to the people he actually liked, but he was very clear on attempting to establish boundaries with others – like his brother. He didn't seem to realise that his own propensity for ignoring limits was shared by Mycroft. They just applied them to different people.

Gabriel checked through the peephole again, certain he was wrong that it was Sherlock. But no, Sherlock was still there, and looked directly at him. Then he remembered that he'd asked Sherlock specifically not to barge in unannounced. It surprised him to realise his request was being honoured.

"I can tell by the change in the light that you're there, Gabriel," Sherlock said, his voice clipped and slightly muffled by the door. "Are you planning on letting me in?"

Gabriel blinked and realised the door was still closed. He sighed, closed his eyes in frustration at his brain's lassitude, then shut off the security system and unlocked the door. Sherlock stepped in, grey eyes flashing over him, and Gabriel repressed another weary sigh. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him and Gabriel pulled his right hand from his crutch and waved it toward the living room. Sherlock strode in and deposited the small paper bag he'd been holding on the coffee table before going into the kitchen.

"I thought you were in Buckinghamshire," Gabriel commented.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock replied from the kitchen.

"What's in the bag?" Gabriel asked. He could hear Sherlock moving about, probably helping himself to something. "Make me some tea," he called and heard a grunt in reply.

"Your DVDs and a replacement for series one."

Gabriel settled himself onto the couch, propping his leg up, then opened the bag curiously. It was practically unheard of that Sherlock would return his DVDs without prompting and buying him a replacement for the scratched disc was even more astonishing. Of course, Sherlock probably hadn't gone to buy it himself – he would have asked Tina who would have sent someone. Still, it was thoughtful.

"Thank you," he said then looked up when Sherlock came back into the living room, carrying two tumblers and a bottle of scotch. Gabriel frowned, setting the bag aside.

"I can't drink that. Not on my meds."

"Unless I'm mistaken, you will have finished your antibiotics tomorrow." He sat down in the chair next to the couch and put the glasses and the bottle on the coffee table, filling each glass with two fingers of the deep amber liquid. "And there are times when it is simply necessary. I'm not suggesting that you get drunk or even have more than one. I am suggesting that you need a drink right now."

He held the glass out to Gabriel and kept his arm extended until the younger man took it. Gabriel stared down at it.

"I'm fine," he said.

"No, you are not," Sherlock replied. "You were shot, you were essentially abducted by your abusive elder brother, and now you're dealing with the fact that Richard is officially missing. I know the visit the police paid you was uneventful, because you would have warned me had it been otherwise and I made enquiries of my own. Judging by how you look, however, Marian's visit did not go well at all."

Gabriel felt his lips twitch and heard a soft, dry chuckle escape him.

"You could say that," he agreed.

He swirled the liquid in the glass, contemplating it for another moment, then knocked it back in one go, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he did so. The scotch burned down his throat and the sensation was almost startling after so long. He didn't often drink it as it was anyway.

Sherlock was sipping his scotch more slowly, watching Gabriel with intent grey eyes. The younger man sighed and put his glass aside.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"I want you to ensure that you're taking care of yourself and if you require anything of me that you let me know. I can arrange to have Richard's body exhumed and moved to a place where the police will find it and not be able to trace it back to any of us."

Gabriel considered this a moment, then shook his head.

"No," he said.

"Are you absolutely certain?"

"Yes," he replied, blowing a sigh through his lips. He could hear the echo of Richard's voice in his mind.

"_Kill you, Gabe? Lord, no, can you imagine how weepy Mum would be?"_

He could imagine how weepy their mother must be now, yes. Losing her favourite son. He rubbed his eyes then pushed his hands across his temples and back into his hair.

"Yes, I'm sure," he repeated. "He's gone, Sherlock. Just let him stay gone. Let him be unimportant. Let him be nothing. That's what he was."

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

"If you change your mind, you have only to tell me."

"I know," Gabriel replied, then paused. "Thanks."

"How is your young lady?"

Gabriel's lips tugged into a small smile again, this one more genuine. He knew full well Sherlock was displeased at having his attention divided – he was far too used to Gabriel having very little in the way of personal commitments. But then again, Gabriel wasn't the one who'd had an entire military unit transferred from Helmand to Kabul in less than two days. It had taken a lot of effort not to break into laughter when Sherlock had told him what it was that Mycroft had done for him.

"She's fine, Sherlock. She's on night shifts right now."

"And off next week."

"Yes," Gabriel replied. He wondered what it would be like when he went back to work – he was used to being called up at all hours for one thing or other but that would have to stop, or at least be seriously cut back. As much as this enforced leave chafed – and it did, especially when Sandra was at work – it had given him a new perspective on his life. He was too accustomed to Sherlock needing him at any given moment and Sherlock was too accustomed to having Gabriel available whenever he wanted.

He didn't imagine he could go to a regular nine-to-five schedule and he'd probably have thrown himself off a bloody bridge if that ever happened, because he could not imagine anything more dull. But surely there must be room for some flexibility? Simone and Poe managed it and they had a child. Sandra's schedule would always be changeable and demanding as well, so it wouldn't require too much adjustment on his part. But some.

He'd talk to Sherlock about it later – now wasn't the time.

"Have you eaten?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, I had something awhile ago."

"Well, you need to eat again," Sherlock said and Gabriel almost laughed at the abruptness of the decision. It was probably true, though – his appetite had been off since Marian's visit but John had said he needed to eat. "I'll send for Indian."

Gabriel nodded and let Sherlock do the ordering – he wasn't fussy about what he ate right now and they'd known each other long enough that Sherlock knew what he didn't like. When Sherlock had finished placing the order, he removed up all the DVDs from the bag and put them away save for one set.

"'The Water of Mars'?" he suggested, cocking a quizzical eyebrow at Gabriel.

Gabriel gave a wry smile and picked up the remote from the coffee table, turning the telly on.

"Sounds good to me," he agreed.


	35. Chapter 35

"Sherlock," Sibyl said, smiling warmly. She rose from the white wicker chair in which she'd been sitting, her movements fluid and graceful. Sherlock grinned and stepped down into the small conservatory in which she'd been reading and sipping a cup of tea. She opened her arms to him and he stepped into her embrace, hugging her in return, then planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Hello, Mum," he said.

Sibyl drew back slightly and cupped his face in her hands, her grey eyes skimming over his features.

"Look at you, my boy. You look wonderful. Are you taking care of yourself, darling?"

"Always, Mum," he assured her. Sibyl evaluated him with a knowing and loving look in her eyes, then pulled him down to kiss his forehead lightly.

"So good to see you, as always. You really must get out here more often, you know."

"I know," Sherlock sighed but didn't lose the smile tugging on his lips. "Although London misses you."

Sibyl smiled again, her grey eyes dancing.

"I have had my fill of the city," she replied. "I prefer it out here now. It's much more peaceful and tranquil."

"Peace and tranquillity," Sherlock repeated, cocking a dark eyebrow.

"Oh, I know you find it terribly dull, darling. But I was never one for rushing madly about the world, interfering in everything like you and Mycroft."

Sherlock snorted at that and raised both eyebrows but Sibyl's expression was unreadable.

"I prefer the world to come to me," she added lightly. "Come, sit. I'll send for some tea, shall I? I had Thomas purchase some of those ghastly biscuits you like so much, too."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said.

Sibyl turned slightly as George, ever present when he was required, stepped smoothly into the entry to the conservatory.

"Tea and HobNobs for my son, George, and scones with cream and raspberry jam for me."

"Yes, ma'am," the butler replied in his cool, superior tone, inclining his head every so slightly. With barely a sound, he was gone. Sibyl sat down again and marked her page carefully before putting her book aside.

"Is Mycroft here yet?" Sherlock asked and Sibyl raised an eyebrow while sipping her tea.

"You're always so suspicious of him," she commented, amusement in her voice.

"He gives me little reason not to be," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "And I did tell him that I was coming, so he'll be bound to arrive shortly – if he hasn't yet."

"He rang earlier today and said he'd be here by tea."

"That late?" Sherlock asked. "I'm surprised."

"Mm, as am I," Sibyl agreed. "But you're both busy men, as you so often remind me. I married a busy man and raised two busy sons."

"You can't tell me you're bored," Sherlock replied. "I know you; you'd never stand for it."

"Bored? Oh no. I've plenty to occupy myself when the men in my life go about their business."

"I know you do, although I suspect I don't know half of what it is that you do," Sherlock replied. "It's part of the reason I came to visit."

"To find out what I do or to make use of it?"

Sherlock gave her a wry smile and leaned forward, kissing her cheek again.

"I wouldn't ask for anything but your help," he replied. She smiled and paused when George came back bearing tea and biscuits and scones. He deposited the scones lightly on the table beside Sibyl and then tray with the tea and biscuits on the table between them. Sherlock nodded his thanks and the butler left as silently as he'd entered. Sherlock fixed his tea and picked up a biscuit before sitting back.

"And with what do you need my help?" Sibyl enquired.

"Business," Sherlock said.

"Nothing tedious, I hope."

Sherlock considered this and then grinned brightly. Jim had wanted a game to offset the boredom. Tedious was probably the last adjective he would choose for this. By the end, he suspected that Jim would look back and relish what he currently thought of as boredom, that he would long to get it back.

But he had asked. And he'd given Sherlock several reasons already to deliver.

"No, not tedious at all," Sherlock replied.

"Good," Sibyl said, spreading clotted cream lightly on a scone. "Mycroft tells me that you've asked for his assistance recently, too."

At this, Sherlock gave an abrupt sigh and rolled his eyes. Sibyl cast a glance at him, half amused, half in warning.

"Really, for a man who deals in secrets as his livelihood, he has no compunctions about disclosing mine," he said, his voice slightly sharper than he'd intended.

"He needs someone to speak with you on his behalf," Sibyl said. "You don't trust him."

"With good reason," Sherlock replied. "Nor does he trust me. Besides, I have someone speaks to him for me. He doesn't need to drag you into it."

"Yes, but Mycroft need someone _he_ can trust, not just someone you trust. I've been your mother and his a long time. I know what I'm doing."

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head, sipping his tea.

"An entire military unit transferred from Bastion to Souter," Sibyl commented. "That isn't like you, Sherlock. I was surprised. You've been so adamant about staying out war zones."

"Yes," Sherlock said. He took another sip of his tea then set the cup aside before picking up a second biscuit. "This was not business, however. Not directly at any rate. A favour to an employee."

Sibyl arched an eyebrow but Sherlock wasn't about to let himself be trapped. He was thirty-two and had mastered that same expression well over a decade ago. He remained unfortunately aware that Sibyl could pin him with her gaze – but he was not about to be ensnared this time.

"It's not like you to do such large favours."

"On the contrary, it's very much like me, although I can generally do these things on my own and not draw attention to them. In this case, I needed Mycroft's assistance because I don't have the contacts within the military to get this done. Mycroft does."

Sherlock picked up his tea again, sipping it. Sibyl was waiting for him to continue and he knew he would. She had always been able outwait him. He knew that he did not really want that to change, either.

"The new doctor I hired, John Watson, was an army surgeon. His former unit is stationed at Bastion and he worries. Kabul is safer. I had them transferred to help alleviate his concern because I need his mind focussed on his job rather than on events he cannot control in another country."

"Is that so?" Sibyl asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. "He has a particularly close friend there, another doctor, about whom he has been worried."

"Hmm," Sibyl replied noncommittally. "Partner? Lover?"

"Sister, I should think. Not biologically or by marriage."

"Ah," Sibyl said. "In the heart."

Sherlock sniffed.

"If you want to be sentimental about these things."

"I've always found military men to be secret sentimentalists," Sibyl commented. "Although I suppose I would be, too, if my job entailed the possibility of dying or losing those close to me at any given moment."

Sherlock simply shrugged one shoulder; he hadn't thought of it one way or the other. He was accustomed to the possibility that he or those close to him could be killed, although he had to admit that it was far less likely to be because of a surprise bombing or in a gunfight with another military force. Or as collateral damage. That was the term they were using nowadays, wasn't it?

He kept another derisive sniff to himself. War was not at all profitable for the real estate market in an occupied country. To be fair, though, he had made quite a bit of money off treasures coming out of Iraq that needed to be sold in the western world without drawing attention. He had no direct presence in Iraq, because it was far simpler to be the specialist facilitating matters here once the artifacts had made it safely to Europe. He had a beautiful Assyrian vase in nearly perfect condition on display in his living room that had come out of Iraq in the early days following the invasion.

"I strongly suspect that Doctor Watson is quite an open sentimentalist," Sherlock remarked and Sibyl gave a surprised laugh.

"Well, so be it," she said. "That was still very kind of you."

Sherlock made no comment. He'd felt a quiet sense of satisfaction when Gabriel had reported to him that Mycroft had succeeded in having the regiment transferred, but he suspect that was more due to the fact that he'd actually got his brother to do something without unnecessary interference.

He'd probably pay for that sooner or later, though. Mycroft enjoyed having Sherlock in his debt. Sherlock felt strongly that his brother was often beholden to him, so perhaps he could use that when Mycroft tried to call in the favour.

"I'd like to purchase property in Italy," his mother said, changing the subject. "Can you take care of that for me?"

"Of course. What would you like?"

"Something in the mountains. A villa with a vineyard, I think."

"Not on the coast?"

"I'm quite happy with the villa in Frontignan, Sherlock." She paused, then smiled, sipping her tea again. "I remember the first time we took you there, when you were two. You used to chase the waves and laugh when you were caught in the surf and knocked over. Your father worried so much that you would drown, but you were fearless."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow thoughtfully.

"I can't imagine Father worrying about anything," he commented.

"Well," Sibyl said, setting her empty teacup aside. "You gave him cause to when you were very young. Fearless, as I said. And not just about the water. And fearless you remain, if I don't miss my guess. Besides, William has never been one for the water."

Sherlock snorted.

"He lives on a bloody island," he pointed out.

"A rather large island and it's not as though we ever needed to swim to France," Sibyl said and Sherlock chuckled.

"And you? You weren't worried about your small son in the sea?"

"I found it far more sensible to stay with you in the water. Who do you think first taught you to swim?"

"You taught me to swim? I don't remember that."

"Well, you were two. It was that summer, you know."

Sherlock thought about that, then grinned.

"You will never stop surprising me," he said, then gave his mother a questioning look when she laughed suddenly, the sound bright and ringing.

"Oh, Sherlock, how many times have I thought the same thing about you?" she asked.

* * *

><p>Mycroft arrived in time for tea which they took in the dining room, just the three of them. William, as always, was held up in meetings. Sherlock occasionally wondered what his mother thought of this, if she missed her husband's presence or was content to see him when he was available. He had often had the impression that they were fond of each other in passing, but then he could catch them in unexpected moments, sitting next to one another with their fingers entwined, walking arm-in-arm in the gardens or, once, dancing together, really no more than swaying, without any music. He had come to the conclusion that they were happy, if only because his mother was not one to tolerate dissatisfaction in her life.<p>

After the main course had been served, Sherlock dismissed the servants, ensuring they closed the doors as they went, leaving the three of them in privacy. Sibyl did not seem surprised by this but Mycroft looked slightly put off and Sherlock tallied a point in his favour.

"I'm in need of your help," he said bluntly, moving his gaze between his brother and his mother.

Mycroft sighed, twitching his eyebrows up, and reached for his wine glass. He sipped the deep red liquid before asking:

"Twice in the space of a week, Sherlock? I hope your business isn't suffering along with the economy."

"There will always be fools with money, Mycroft," Sherlock replied.

"And there will always be people to take it from them," his brother rejoined.

"Supply and demand," Sherlock agreed.

Sibyl arched a white eyebrow and Mycroft and Sherlock glowered at each other across the table for a moment.

"Is dinner really the time and place to discuss business?" Mycroft enquired.

"I prefer to do so here," Sherlock answered. "I have plans after dinner that don't involve you."

"And what would those be?" Mycroft asked smoothly, cocking an eyebrow, giving Sherlock one of his maddening knowing expressions.

"I don't know yet. I intend to see what the evening brings."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sipped his wine again. Sherlock chalked up another point for himself.

"Be civilised," Sibyl warned. "I'll not have petty bickering at this table."

Sherlock nodded and his mother shot him a brief warning look before turning it to Mycroft.

"Will you tell me now what you need help with?" Sibyl asked.

"James Moriarty," Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes on his mother's face. He knew Mycroft knew who Jim was but had never mentioned him to Sibyl, operating on the basis that the less she knew about Jim, the better off she was. He had no intentions of giving Jim any ammunition against his family. Mycroft could certainly take care of himself, and Sherlock was certain that Sibyl and William could as well. But given that Jim had been meddling in the life of someone close to Sherlock recently, he was inclined to be as cautious as possible.

"I've heard the name," Sibyl said and Sherlock was not particularly surprised.

"What do you know of him?" he asked.

"Whispers and rumours only – but all of them unpleasant. The truth is in there and I suspect it's far worse than the stories suggest."

"I guarantee it," Sherlock replied. "He is – dangerous. Very dangerous. He operates in the same circles as I do, on the same level. I've known him for a over a decade, Mum, and have succeeded in keeping him at arm's length. Until recently. Now he's begun interfering."

Mycroft was watching his brother carefully, with no hint of gloating, which confirmed for Sherlock how accurate his brother's information about Jim was. Sibyl's expression was concerned and dark but patient, waiting for Sherlock to explain.

He outlined briefly his interactions with Jim over the past eleven years and spoke in more detail about the recent complications. He saw Sibyl's eyes flash with distaste and understood – he himself found Jim's actions unsophisticated and childish. It was part of the problem in dealing with a psychopath. Jim could not be reasoned with, nor he could not be counted to have a consistent behaviour. He did what he found entertaining at the time and always managed to extract himself from difficult situations with the minimum amount of fuss for himself and the maximum amount of chaos for others.

"We've been trying to track him for years," Mycroft said. "We have nothing official on him, though. Same as with Mummy – we have only innuendo and whispers. Nothing concrete. Why hadn't you given me this information before?"

Sherlock fixed his grey eyes on his brother.

"I've never had need to," he replied bluntly.

"And now that he's upset you personally, you think it's an appropriate time to bring him to my attention?"

"Yes. He's my competition, Mycroft, but he's always been relatively careful with me. Oh, he taunts and teases me because it amuses him, but until now he's never actually put anyone close to me in real danger. Had John Watson not had the sense to watch Gabriel get into a cab, Gabriel may well be dead and _that_ does not sit well with me. I run a large and complex organisation. I cannot simply replace people directly below me at a moment's notice. Do you go after all of your direct competition? I can hardly imagine you do – if you did, there'd be no one left in the British government at all. His presence also helps keep the police at bay – without him, they'd have more time to focus on me."

"The police," Mycroft said, half to himself. "You don't consider yourself out of their reach?"

"The day I do is the day I should turn myself into Scotland Yard," Sherlock snapped. "That kind of arrogance only leads to failure. They recently caught the serial suicide murder, that cabbie, Jeffrey Wells."

"And did you have anything to do with that?" Mycroft asked, arching an eyebrow with that maddening knowing expression.

"No," Sherlock lied, making sure the truth was all Mycroft could read in his features.

Sibyl held out a hand, barely moving, but both men stilled.

"You may both be adults, but you are in my home and I am your mother. If you do not treat each other with respect at my table, I _will_ confine you both to your rooms."

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at her, then Sherlock glanced away, fighting down a smile. He had no doubt she was utterly serious and that it was within her abilities to follow through on that threat.

"I am sorry, Mum," he said sincerely. Mycroft managed a stiff nod.

"Thank you," Sibyl said smoothly. "What is it that you want from us, Sherlock?"

"Information only, at least for now. I have a great deal of my own, but more will not hurt. This will take time. If he is to fall, the entire structure underneath him must crumble first. It is the only way I can get him down to a level where he can be dealt with."

"And then?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock sighed inwardly; his brother had an unreasonable preoccupation with wanting Sherlock to go through official channels despite the fact that he almost never did so himself.

"And then we shall see. Information first and we will work from there."


	36. Chapter 36

On Sunday morning, Jamie got up early and padded into the kitchen barefoot to make himself a cup of tea. As cold as the floors were in this old Victorian house in February, he enjoyed the ability to walk around not having to wear his boots. The flat was as chilly as it was silent, so he draped the afghan over his legs when he settled on the couch and then flicked on the lamp beside him. The pool of yellow light made the room seem warmer in the cold winter darkness. Jamie picked up a catalogue and began thumbing through it idly.

John was having far too much fun taking the piss out of him for having furniture catalogues and it had been odd to realise he'd never had to actually buy anything new. Before he'd joined the army, he'd lived with some mates and everything he'd owned had been purchased from the Oxfam or Red Cross shops. Since then, he'd been in the service and had been overseas three times. Between his first and second and second and third tours, he'd gone back to Edinburgh and stayed with Ellie and her kids. After the third tour had been abruptly cut short, he'd been shuffled into the halfway house following his release from the hospital.

And now here he was, thirty-seven bloody years old and having to buy new furniture for the first time. He was emailing Ellie constantly, asking for her opinions because everything looked good to him and he was more interested in if it was comfortable rather than if it matched. The idea of buying things in sets seemed odd. He knew Ellie was laughing at him via email – and on Skype when she rang so the kids could see him even if he had to type his replies – but it didn't matter. She was helping him, too.

John had done well enough for himself, but John had just gone and bought whatever had caught his fancy and that was that.

He didn't have to worry about whether or not someone else would like it.

It was so bloody complicated. Even beds were complicated – Jamie was bewildered by this. A bed should be a bed. He'd spent the past year and a half on narrow beds with thin or uncomfortable mattresses – at Bastion, in the hospital, in the halfway house. He was baffled by the world of options: memory foam, pillow-top, independent coils. Didn't people know what the rest of the bloody world slept on? In some places, a mat on the floor was a luxury. He'd slept in far worse, on bare freezing ground in a ditch, on hard floor in his tiny shared bunk at Bastion in the baking summer heat, in the back of Humvee, covered in dust and sweat and engine grease. There were times he'd been grateful for his narrow army cot. Now he had to decide between sizes and styles and types of frames.

It was mad.

Occasionally he thought about asking Tricia for her opinion as well, but decided against it. It was bad enough that Ellie was laughing him. But Tricia would grin that devilish grin of hers and very pointedly _not_ snicker and then probably tell John, who would tease him even more.

He was a grown man, a master mechanic, a former soldier, and had survived an explosion that should have killed him. He could bloody well pull it together enough to buy furniture for one flat.

_Chin up and quit your moaning_, he told himself. _You're complaining about nothing._

He finished his tea and put the catalogue away with a sigh; these things needed to be sorted out sooner rather than later, but not today. He had to eat, shower and get dressed in time for Mass; he'd missed last week altogether because of John's birthday. Somehow, the idea of turning up hung over didn't appeal – he was certain the priests would have opinions about that, even if God forgave, and the music wouldn't have helped the headache. He'd needed to sleep all that off to go meet John's mum and sister, too.

He got up and went back into the kitchen and flicked the light on, pulling out some food and set himself to cooking. He fixed himself another cuppa while he was at it, then sat at the table and ate in silence, moving Tricia's care package a bit. He'd done it up the night before and the letter had been the last thing to go in. They communicated by email, of course, but he'd always loved getting handwritten letters from Ellie and her kids when he'd been overseas. Sometimes it was just nice to see familiar handwriting.

Tricia's immediately family consisted of her father who remembered who she was only on a very good day. It wasn't hard to see why she and John were so bloody close – they'd both lost a sibling in one way or another, although Harry was doing much better now, according to John. The rumours that she and John were shagging had reinforced for Jamie how many people were just sodding idiots and couldn't see what was right in front of them. He wished he'd paid more attention to the way things were between himself and Tricia, though.

_Stupid waste of time_, he told himself, then shook his head. No sense beating himself up – he couldn't change it. Back then, there had been what he thought of as practical considerations, too. She was a captain; he'd been a sergeant. Even though she hadn't been his CO, she still significantly outranked him, which would have made things complicated. She was obviously way out of his league: she was a doctor, she was a captain, she was gorgeous.

Looking back now, those just seemed like bullshit excuses.

Well, things could change. Things _had_ changed. Nothing was happening, not exactly, not yet. But they'd been talking like it was. Where to live, if they wanted kids, how many, how to raise them, religion, money, work schedules, all of it.

When he'd come home, he'd come home to nothing, really. A tiny flat in a halfway house, a meagre pension, no real job prospects given his injuries. He'd settled into limbo without realising it, happy to wait because he was waiting for her. It had been mind numbing but he hadn't thought about it, hadn't known that at the time.

Now he had a job and was making good money and would have his own flat soon. He wasn't just waiting, he was living. He was getting ready. When Tricia came back in autumn, she'd have someone to help support her until she got a civilian job, which he didn't think would take her very long. She was a good doctor – brilliant, really. And she'd have somewhere to live.

Somewhere with matching furniture.

* * *

><p>Mycroft found Sherlock in the same conservatory in which the younger man had greeted their mother the day before. Sherlock glanced up when his brother came in and sat down beside him. He refused to be put off his light lunch by Mycroft's presence – he hadn't asked Mycroft to come see him, after all. And he was enjoying sitting in the rare February sunshine, kept warm by the well insulated windows that looked out onto the snow covered gardens. The paths had been shovelled, of course, but the trees and flowerbeds were gently blanketed by winter white.<p>

He had played in the snow in these very gardens as a child. Sometimes he remembered this, nothing more than images or impressions from when he was very young. He thought he could recall Mycroft teaching him to make a snowman when the snow had had the right consistency but he found the memory suspect. It was difficult to imagine Mycroft wanting to do anything physical outside. Perhaps it had been their cousin Dorian, who was Mycroft's age.

Now the gardens were silent and still. It was deceptive; a casual glance might suggest that there hadn't been a child playing in them since Sherlock had been young. But there had been, and very recently. Just this past Christmas. Mycroft hadn't gone outside to join in, but Sibyl had. So had Sherlock. Mycroft clearly imagined that Sherlock had only done this to garner more favours from his brother, because that was how Mycroft viewed everything. Generally this was true – Sherlock did little for his brother unless he could get something in return. But spending time with his nephew wasn't about Mycroft, it was about David. He enjoyed seeing the boy when he was in London or Buckinghamshire during his school holidays.

"This complicates matters," Mycroft commented lightly. He crossed one leg over the other, his shoes spotless and gleaming.

"Does it?" Sherlock asked.

"I will need to have people watching Angela and David now."

"I suspect that you already do and always have, and that Angela has some of her own people doing the same. Not to mention keeping an eye on you."

"Hmm," Mycroft said noncommittally, arching an eyebrow.

"And I suspect you've already asked for her assistance with this."

"She's heard the name Moriarty before as well. Less than I have, I believe, but even once is enough in our circles. Her contacts in Scotland are far more extensive than mine."

Sherlock glanced up from his tea, cocking an eyebrow in return, an amused expression dancing on his lips.

"Mycroft Holmes admitting that his influence is less than complete?" he asked.

"Oh please," Mycroft replied, waving a hand and looking mildly annoyed. "You already know that. No need to act quite so delighted about it."

"On the contrary, I feel every need to do so," Sherlock said, setting aside his plate and smiling.

"Clearly your contacts among the criminal classes are much better than mine," Mycroft said. "You demonstrated that quite well at tea last night. How often to do you speak with Moriarty and yet you never deemed it necessary to tell me?"

"It wasn't necessary, not until now," Sherlock replied, keeping his tone light. "As for how often I have contact with him – far more than I would like. Usually not by my own choice."

"An admirer, Sherlock?"

Sherlock snorted.

"I suspect so, but you needn't worry, Mycroft. He's hardly my type."

"Ah, then he isn't French. I didn't think so."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing inwardly.

"Oh, please," he said. "And no, he is not French. Surprisingly, the world is full of attractive men who are not French. Although classifying Jim as attractive is inaccurate unless you find psychopathy and the unreliability that accompanies it to be appealing. I do not. He's Irish, Mycroft, although he moved to England when he was nine."

"I will need all of your information on him," Mycroft snapped.

"And you will have it," Sherlock replied. "We have a meeting scheduled for Tuesday afternoon."

Mycroft simply nodded. He was unsurprised by the announcement – he did the same to Sherlock whenever he wanted to meet with him, but it was far better than being escorted to some shadowy parking garage late at night. Sherlock had hated when Mycroft had done that to him when he'd been in university. Of course, he knew Mycroft had disliked being forced to track him down at Charles' flat. But fair was fair. And it was entertaining to discomfit his brother so much.

"The serial killing cabbie," Mycroft said. "Was that you?"

"I'm hardly a cabbie," Sherlock replied. Mycroft sighed, giving him a put upon older brother look.

"Was he one of yours?"

"No," Sherlock said coldly. "I would not endorse that sort of nonsense nor tolerate it from any of my people. It's too blatant and can be too easily tracked down – as we've seen, since the police were able to identify and apprehend him. If I were to send someone to commit a string of staged suicides, the police would not ever have been able to determine that they were really murders."

"You know, hearing that does not at all make me feel better."

"Yes, because you hadn't though precisely the same thing regarding yourself," Sherlock commented.

"Hmm," Mycroft said. "But you are still my little brother."

Sherlock sighed.

"I'm thirty-two, Mycroft. I do _not_ qualify as 'little'."

Mycroft gave an infuriating small shrug and Sherlock resisted the urge to snap at him. This took quite a bit of effort and he was certain Mycroft had picked up on some of it, but he was not sinking to that level. Picking a fight would only reinforce Mycroft's opinion of Sherlock's status.

_Little!_ he thought with an inward scowl. _Thirty-two years old, six-foot-two and he calls me 'little'!_

He made a mental note to arrange a sudden shortage in Britain of Mycroft's favourite coffee for the next two weeks due to shipping delays. He had enough contacts in British customs that EU regulations could suddenly hold up delivery.

"Very commendable of the police to identify and catch this killer," Mycroft said.

"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock agreed.

"And was that you?"

"Mycroft, I think you're in need of a holiday. Go to Frontignan for a week or two. You're seeing conspiracies everywhere. I don't even know if this cabbie had anything to do with Jim and now you're fitting me in as – what? The informant? Why would I want to be an informant?"

"You want to bring Moriarty down," Mycroft pointed out.

"Yes, I do. As I said, however, I don't know if he was connected to Jim. It's possible he was a lone psychopath. How many other cabbies do you suppose branch out into murder? I suspect they always know some quiet place in which to dispose of a body."

"As do you, I imagine."

"And you," Sherlock sighed.

"You wouldn't tell me if you'd been involved anyway, would you?"

"No," Sherlock agreed. "So you will get the same answer regardless. Less stress all around for you to simply accept it. And less stress is better for your health, which I know is a concern. Although I must say, you've lost two pounds since I last saw you. The diet must be going well."

"It is indeed," Mycroft replied. "What's your next move, Sherlock?"

"The same as yours, Mycroft. Security. Eyes on those close to me, those whom I trust." He paused, withholding another sigh. "This will require your assistance."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows but looked more curious than condescending this time.

"Your own guards must be more than adequate," he commented.

"Yes, in the areas in which I operate. I'm not concerned about coverage here or on the continent. Nor am I particularly concerned about those high up in my organisation – they're well versed in taking care of themselves, although extra security is warranted. But I know Jim operates in Afghanistan. I suspect my refusal to do so may be problematic for me now even if it has not been in the past. Mycroft, do you have people there that you trust, really trust?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied simply.

"How much do you trust them?" Sherlock pressed. His brother had very specific and well-defined levels of confidence in those who worked for him. The distinctions were many and Sherlock needed to know how deep the trust ran, if it would be sufficient for his needs.

"With my life," Mycroft replied. "Or Angela's or David's."

Sherlock let out a slow breath. That was more than enough. And he knew that when it came to his wife and son, Mycroft would not lie about how he protected them.

"Good," Sherlock said. "Let me tell you what I need."


	37. Chapter 37

"Doctor Tricia Remsen?"

"That's me," Tricia said, not looking up. The voices were unfamiliar but that wasn't out of the ordinary. "Unless you're bringing blood, you will get out of my operating room and out of the way of the people who are. God help you if you aren't scrubbed."

She kept her eyes on her work and heard the faint sound of two sets of feet walking away – she'd thought so. Her eyes narrowed somewhat but her focus wasn't lost.

_Idiots_, she thought, giving herself that half-second of contempt before she forgot them, pushing them out of her mind. Right now, they could not and would not matter.

It was always a shock when she finished, waiting for the next one only to find out there were no more, at least not for the moment. Tricia raised her eyes and met those of the nurse across from her who wore the same expression.

Two lost and she didn't know how many saved. She couldn't keep track of that – although she used to try back she'd started her first tour. It had quickly become impossible and impractical so she'd stopped, but she'd never stopped counting the ones who died on her table. Each time, she felt a piece of her heart go with them. No matter how often it happened, she hadn't got used to it. Part of her hoped she never would.

But this time, another one came back under the heels of her hands, under the steady onslaught of compressions and she'd laughed a sharp, triumphant laugh, only one short sound, before going back to work on him. Tricia thought he might have been an American, judging from the shredded uniform they'd to cut off of him, but she wasn't sure. That might have been someone else.

She left the OR, pulling her mask down when the doors swung shut behind her and found a bench to sit down on. For a moment, her legs protested, too used to being standing after so many hours – she didn't even know how many. The sun had been up when the "all medics out!" call had been shouted down the hallway, bouncing off the concrete walls, so it must be dark by now. She'd never been able to track the hours instinctively like John had; for her, it was all a moment at a time when she was in there, then a blur when she came out.

She stripped off her mask and gloves, binning them, then leaned forward with a heavy sigh, holding her head in her hands for a minute. Her scrubs were soaked in blood and it began to bother her, so she stood, groaning, and stripped down the rest of the way to her fatigues, which would have be washed as well.

Hell, _she_ needed a wash.

_Shower_, she thought. The idea always seemed to be a bit delayed, as if she forgot about running water despite all the pre-op scrubbing she had to do. She needed a good scrubbing right now.

"Doctor Remsen?" someone asked.

Tricia spun fast – she hadn't heard anyone come up behind her and was confronted suddenly by two men whom she didn't know. Acute awareness that she was _not_ wearing her sidearm hit her, followed by the realisation that both men were standing at attention. Their uniforms were not quite familiar but their bearing was; they weren't going to hurt her. They were waiting for her.

They were also lower-ranking than her.

"That's Captain Remsen to you," she snapped, putting the trained weight of authority in her voice. She took a deep breath to quell the sudden adrenaline spike and let it out slowly.

One of them, the one who had spoken, shifted uneasily. At first glance, they looked alike, kind of like American Marines always did to her, but she began to see differences. They were almost the same height, maybe a centimetres difference, but one had a lighter complexion and lighter eyes. Probably lighter hair, too, but she couldn't tell beneath the helmet.

"Sorry, ma'am," he apologised and she huffed. He should have known better.

He was English, that much was obvious from his voice. But she didn't recognise the uniform as one of their boys, or navy or air force.

She placed the voice then; he'd come into the OR looking for her earlier. Tricia's blue eyes narrowed – she disliked the fact that he'd come back with his mate and that their uniforms weren't immediately identifiable. It probably meant they were MI5 or something equally pompous.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Lieutenants John Adamson and Malcolm Davies," he said. "Ma'am, we need you to come with us."

Tricia stared at him a moment, then give her head a shake to return herself to reality.

"No," she replied flatly. They couldn't argue; she outranked them.

"Ma'am –"

"Lieutenant Adamson, you will kindly shut up and listen to me. I don't know who you are, I don't know what you want. Two strange men show up unexpectedly and want me to accompany them – where? Care to tell me where, Lieutenant?"

Adamson's eyes flickered to Davies, who cleared his throat slightly uncomfortably.

"We have orders –"

"And I do not. Sorry, Lieutenant, but not a chance in hell. I don't even know what time it is but I suspect it's already night, and I'm definitely not going anywhere with you by myself when no one knows you're even here talking to me, let alone that you want me to go with you. That would be an unbelievably stupid thing for me to do – do you even realise what you're asking me to do? Take that question back to whoever gave you those orders. If someone needs to see me, they can come through my CO because I am not going anywhere alone."

She paused and drew a deep breath, recognising that her patience was strained under the weight of fatigue, dehydration and lack of food. She needed a shower, water, something to eat and her bunk, in that order.

They were standing side-by-side, taking up the entire width of the narrow hallway but she strode toward them, forcing Davies to stand aside. Tricia didn't look back; she was frankly uninterested in what they wanted. A shower was much more appealing than puzzling out why they were there, and she wished – as she did every time – that she'd have clean clothes to change into when she was finished. Well, nothing for it. She wasn't much looking forward to walking back to her bunk with freezing hair, either, but the idea of waiting for a shower until she got back to her tiny shared room didn't sit well. The OR showers had consistent hot water almost more often than not. Even lukewarm would be fine.

"Ma'am, please, we need –"

Tricia turned back.

"What you need is irrelevant, Lieutenant. I'm the captain here, so I will call the shots. Just because there are two of you doesn't mean that combined you outrank me. I told you to tell your CO to go through mine. Whatever it is you need, it can wait."

It had to. She felt like she might collapse if she didn't keep walking. They either had poor timing or no experience with combat surgeons. It took about ten minutes for her before the adrenaline crashed and she was usually all right if she was in the shower, where she could lean against the wall and let the water take the rush with it as it drained away.

She saw the two men stiffen even more to attention the moment before she turned away and it made her pause, her features shifting into a frown.

"Captain Watson," Adamson said, giving a slight nod.

There was a moment of terrible elation as utter denial and searing relief warred in Tricia.

_No no please oh let it be – _she thought and turned slowly, relief and disappointment mingling, colliding, their dual impacts just barely keeping her upright.

A woman in a uniform similar to the lieutenants was standing behind her, smiling gently at her, holding a set of clean, folded clothes and looking unperturbed by Tricia's shocked expression. Tricia put the newcomer – _Captain Watson_ – at a year or two older than herself, closer to the age of the Captain Watson whom she knew.

"Lieutenants," Watson said. "Dismissed."

They saluted and hurried away. Watson turned her head slightly to watch them go, a small, amused smile tugging on her lips. She was thin and delicate-looking, with pale eyebrows and light brown hair tied back in a sensible braid. She wasn't wearing a helmet – she hadn't just come here from somewhere else. Or she'd removed it. Her hair was clean but still damp in its braid, so she'd just showered and she had a look that Tricia recognised. She saw it all the time.

"Doctor or nurse?" she asked.

"Nurse," Watson replied. "I apologise for Adamson and Davies; they're only acting under orders."

"Aren't we all?" Tricia murmured to which Watson raised an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid their orders were pretty vague. 'Go get Doctor Remsen and bring her here.' Sometimes, they forget that a little finesse may be required."

_Sometimes they don't think that a woman might not want to go with strange men_, is what Tricia interpreted. She nodded.

"Who are you, anyway?"

"Captain Sarah Watson," the nurse replied.

"Yes, I did get most of that from what Adamson said. I mean, who are you with? I don't recognise the uniform."

Watson gave her a level look that Tricia returned without any hesitation or problem – two captains, sizing each other up. Determining who was in charge here would be difficult, but then she wondered why it would matter. She was finished with surgery. She wanted a shower. Everything else could wait.

"Oh, of course, I'm sorry. MI5."

_Knew it!_ Tricia thought. She took a calculated step back and saw Watson note it.

"And what does MI5 want with me? I know I haven't done anything, because I've been elbow-deep in blood and internal organs for the last – I don't know how many hours."

"Thirteen," Watson supplied.

"Thirteen hours, then. I know I couldn't have got up to much more than saving lives."

Watson sighed.

"They didn't tell you?"

"No," Tricia replied and _now_ she began to worry. MI5 wanted her – this wasn't because of something she'd done. But had something happened? Had someone died? Her thoughts flashed to London – her father and Jamie and John – and her legs felt weak suddenly. Watson looked alarmed when Tricia put a hand against the wall and reached out with a hand of her own in a steadying gesture.

"Captain Remsen, we have orders from very high up to give you thirty minutes of video conference time on our system with John Watson and James McTavish back in London."

"What?" Tricia demanded, certain she'd heard wrong. "Why would MI5 want to give me time on their system? I have Skype anyway."

"Yes, and our system is significantly better, believe me. Not only is the software far superior, our Internet connection isn't subject to the same traffic problems."

Tricia stared at Watson, at a loss for words. She wondered briefly if she were dreaming – maybe she'd fallen asleep in the shower or had actually made it back to her bunk and collapsed into bed. The situation seemed to make about as much sense as a dream would.

"I took the liberty of getting you some fresh clothes from your bunk," Watson continued. "I apologise for going in uninvited, but I thought you might want to wear something not covered in blood and sweat."

Tricia just stared at her a moment longer, then shook her head.

"Are you – are you bloody serious?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am," Watson said with a gentle smile. "We can only give you half an hour, but the clock doesn't start until you get there. You have time to shower."

Tricia showered in record time nonetheless; none of her post-surgery ablutions had ever been that quick and she was towelling her short hair roughly and pulling on her fatigues before she knew it, hurrying out to join Watson again, who smiled at her.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked, falling into pace beside Watson who kept them moving at a good clip. "Why is MI5 at all interested in letting me talk to Jamie and John?"

"That I don't know, Doctor," Watson replied. "I wasn't actually given the orders, I just happened to be there when they were issued. I thought maybe you might be more willing to trust a single woman against whom you stood a fair fighting chance than two strange men."

"You've got that right," Tricia snapped. "Are they okay? Nothing happened to them?"

"As far as I know, they're fine, but I don't know either of them."

"Then what's going on?" Tricia murmured to herself but part of her didn't care. She so rarely got to see Jamie and John and each time she did, she was stunned by how different they looked from how she remembered them. Not as drugged up injured patients on their way to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham, but as she'd always known them. Tanned, in uniform, faces and hands smeared with dirt more often than not, hair bleached lighter by the sun – blond for John, lighter brown for Jamie. Now it was paler skin and darker hair and civilian clothing. And scars – at least on Jamie because John's were hidden by his clothing.

And Sarah Watson was right – the video function on Skype wasn't always reliable. More than once, she'd had to end a conversation because the image had frozen. It was always disappointing and left her staring at her laptop screen, feeling wistful and lonely.

She followed Watson through the camp, grateful the other captain had thought to bring her sidearm and helmet for her, as well as her parka. It was night and February and bloody freezing. She felt the ends of her hair turning to ice and was glad she kept it fairly short.

"In here," Watson said once they'd made their way inside the MI5 offices. At first glance, they seemed no different than any of the other military offices on the base, but Tricia noticed that the equipment seemed newer and more expensive. She shed her parka as Watson ushered her into a small room cluttered with computers and several monitors. There was a corporal sitting in front of one of the screens and he looked up when they came in.

"Ready, ma'am?" he asked, pushing his chair back a bit and giving them each a respectful nod.

Watson looked at Tricia.

"Ready?"

Tricia pulled off her helmet and ran her hands through her hair. It probably didn't help, but it would have to do. She wondered again if she were dreaming, but gave a nod.

"Ready," she replied.

"Give us the link-up, Corporal," Watson replied. "Then you can go."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed and set to work. After a minute or so, he got up and gestured to the chair.

"Ready when you are, ma'am. Just click on the 'connect' link at the top right and that will put the call through."

Tricia hesitated another moment, then draped her parka across another chair and sat down. The corporal left the room, shutting the door behind him. Tricia watched him go, then turned back to Watson.

"Any chance of you explaining what the hell is going on?" she asked.

Watson just smiled.

"I'll be back in thirty minutes," she replied. "Enjoy."

She left as well and Tricia was alone. She stared at the monitor, then clicked the connect link as instructed. A moment later, the blank screen the programme was displaying jumped and a new image appeared. Jamie was grinning at her, hazel eyes dancing, then he looked away and thumped a hand on the table before making an impatient beckoning gesture to someone off screen.

"Is that her?" she heard John calling.

Jamie nodded, mouthing "yes" in reply. Tricia heard John approaching and Jamie turned back to her, still grinning. Another moment and John was there, smiling just as widely. She stared at them, speechless, for a second or two, then started to laugh to keep from crying.

"Oh my God," Tricia said. "It's so good to see you."

* * *

><p>"You wanted to see me, Colonel?" Sarah Watson asked, stepping into her CO's office and saluting.<p>

"At ease, Captain," Marsh replied. There was a weary hint in his voice with which Sarah was long familiar. She raised her eyebrows curiously but had a very firm idea of what was going on, given that he was holding his phone receiver in his right hand, his left hand pressed over the mouthpiece.

"For you," he continued, extending the phone to her. She took it and waited until he'd left. There was nothing pointed or expectant in her stance – he was her commanding officer, after all. But she knew who was on the phone now and knew Marsh would have been given orders to leave. When the door clicked shut, Sarah put the receiver to her ear.

"Yes, Mister Holmes?" she asked.

"Did you find her?" her boss enquired.

"Yes, sir, I did. She's talking to McTavish and Watson now."

"Good," Mycroft Holmes sighed on the other end of the line. In London, most likely. Sarah gave herself half a moment to miss the city and then refocused. "Can you do six months as regular army, Captain?"

"If that's what my orders are, sir," she replied.

"No, Captain, I need you to tell me if you can do this or not. This goes beyond me simply giving you orders. If you have any reservations, you will tell me immediately."

Sarah smiled.

"It's where I started, sir," she reminded him. "No reservations."

"Very good," Mycroft said and she thought she might have detected a twinge of relief in his voice but it may just have been her imagination. "Your orders are as follows."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** The next chapter is all John and Sherlock, I promise. This chapter was supposed to come later but fit better timing-wise here. Also, yes, it is Sarah. (**HOS70:** bet you didn't see that one coming!)


	38. Chapter 38

**A/N:** I don't own anything to do with HSBC. I just used it because it's a common bank in a lot of places in the world, including London. Please don't sue me.

* * *

><p>John had to admit he felt very spiffy in his new suit. It amazed him how well it fit him even though it had been made specifically for him. Everything was perfect – the cut, the length, the weight. For the first time since he'd been officially discharged, he felt completely comfortable being a civilian. Usually he felt like a soldier hiding in civilian clothing but this – no one would hide in this suit. It was brilliant.<p>

He was glad Sherlock had asked him to wear it today, even if it meant some mystery meeting where John had to look good. He wondered what his role was other than appearances – he hoped Sherlock didn't expect an actual contribution from him. He'd learned a lot in two weeks, but mostly what he'd learned was to keep his mouth shut.

He had his own work to attend to that afternoon and he'd made that clear to Sherlock, who had been unsurprised and unperturbed. John had a few more patients now – Sherlock's people were beginning to call him for smaller medical problems that any doctor would deal with. He didn't mind because it gave him actual medicine to practice, which was his job, after all. He still checked in on Gabriel, although less frequently since the young man seemed to be actually following his medical advice and resting. Emma Fitzhugh had recovered nicely in the resilient way of the very young and her x-rays had been fine. John thought her parents were probably suffering more long-term damage than she ever would but they had seemed less shaken up about the whole thing after John had given Emma the all clear.

He took his physician's bag with him every day he went out with Sherlock, just in case. When he slid into the car that morning, he dropped the leather satchel at his feet as per usual and felt Sherlock's gaze rake over him appraisingly – also as per usual. There was definite approval in his grey eyes today and John met them squarely, refusing to be put off by the small, appreciative smile that tugged on his boss' lips. That was not for him obviously – it was satisfaction at seeing his money turned into such a brilliant suit.

"Good morning, Sherlock," John said and Sherlock just nodded in return. John took a deep breath and plunged in headlong. "Thanks for arranging that chat set up last night."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him as the car pulled into traffic but John wasn't going to be derailed. All right, it was likely his boss couldn't arrange the transfer of a military unit in less than forty-eight hours. John could accept that. But two MI5 officers had invaded his flat the previous evening with computer equipment and set up a video chat with Tricia on a programme that was far superior to any of the free software that most military personnel relied upon. John had let them back in this morning to collect their equipment before he'd left for work.

"Again, not me," Sherlock said.

"Oh, come on!" John protested.

"Well, not entirely. My brother owed me a favour."

John stared at him.

"First, that's some favour. Is this normal for the two of you? What did you have to do to get it? Steal his favourite painting from the Louvre?"

"It's _Louvre_," Sherlock said, rolling the ar at the back of his throat. John ignored the way Sherlock's voice dropped when he did this and shook his head.

"I don't speak French; I can't do that," he pointed out.

"To answer your question, no," Sherlock replied. "I simply had to speed up the correction of some customs issues that were withholding the import of his favourite coffee."

John narrowed his eyes at this, but Sherlock seemed entirely serious. The problem with someone who was such a good actor, though, was that he could be lying. John could never tell. Sherlock obviously made sure people couldn't tell.

"Entirely serious," Sherlock said.

"Okay, fine," John said. "I mean, normally when I do a favour for Harry, it involves watering her plants while she's away or letting her stay on my couch or a night or two."

"Or repaying her ten thousand pound debt."

John opened his mouth and then closed it again, shocked into momentary silence. Sherlock was watching him levelly – that comment hadn't been pointed or cruel, just factual.

"Or that," John conceded, a touch of darkness in his voice.

"Mycroft hardly needs me to water his plants and he has several other flats where he can stay should he require it, not to mention that there are a number of adequate hotels in the city that could accommodate him."

John wondered what qualified as an adequate hotel in Sherlock's mind. Five hundred pounds a night? A thousand?

"So, what, this is a typical favour for him?"

"Mm, somewhat larger than usual, but it required some substantial bribes to EU officials to rectify the coffee import situation."

"Okay, so this brings me to point number two. Why this? I mean, out of everything you could have picked, why did you do this? You don't owe me anything, or Jamie either. Why us? There must be dozens of people you know better than us who need things."

"I'm not in need of anything at the moment and when I am, I'll deal with some other problem Mycroft needs solving. It's not difficult. As to why – why not? It was within my means and I've been pleased with both your performance and James'."

"Jamie," John said.

"What?"

"Jamie, not James. No one calls him James. It sounds weird."

Sherlock paused as if considering this.

"Jamie, then," he agreed and John was momentarily taken aback. Not only had he corrected his boss on the use of Jamie's name, but Sherlock had conceded. He was stunned to realise he'd done this without even thinking about it. Then he felt suddenly abashed. But if Sherlock objected to the correction, he didn't say anything about it. John wondered if he'd overstepped his bounds – but a man like Sherlock would let him know.

"Consider it a performance bonus," Sherlock said.

John thought about this, then nodded slowly. This wasn't a typical job. No reason why the bonuses should be typical.

"Right," he said. "Well, thank you. It was brilliant to talk to her."

"Good," Sherlock murmured, then cast a glance out the window, his expressive features pinching into a frown. John glanced out as well, aware that they'd slowed, and saw that they were about to be stuck in traffic. The morning rush hour combined with poor weather that week was wreaking havoc on the roads.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"Shad Sanderson."

"Who's that?" John asked.

"Not who, what. It's a bank. One of my banks."

"By one of your banks, do you mean you own it or you're a customer?"

"Client, John, I'm a client. Not a customer." He said the last word with disdain, like a society lady having to pick up something dirty.

"So, what, you're going to deposit some stolen money?"

Sherlock sighed, turning back to him, but John was certain he'd caught a glimpse of amusement flitting through those grey eyes. Then it was gone and his expression was suddenly hard and serious.

"No. I'm going to repay Jim for having Richard abduct Gabriel."

"How?" John pressed, aware that he shouldn't be asking – it was probably in his best interests not to know. "Are you going to drain his bank accounts there?"

"Tempting but crude. No, I'm going to provide the bank with information regarding the manager of one of their largest Asian accounts. He's been smuggling artifacts from China for sale in Britain."

"What?" John demanded. "How do you know?"

"Ah," Sherlock said softly. "There is your line."

"What? Sorry?"

"You're wondering how far you should go and that is it. The information you have is sufficient – for your own sake, you should not know more. I have my contacts and my spies and my informants but they are not your concern. For your own peace of mind, you will keep it that way."

John nodded. In a way, he was glad to hear that. He had really started to wonder if Sherlock was prepping him for actually moving into organised crime and didn't want that. He loved being a doctor. And he didn't want to get more caught up in this than he already was.

Sherlock checked the time on his phone then put it away, appearing unconcerned. John raised his eyebrows in surprise and checked his own watch even though he had no idea when the appointment with this banker was set. Wasn't Sherlock worried about being late?

"No," Sherlock said.

"What?" John asked.

"No, I'm not concerned with being late."

"What – how did you – I didn't say that!"

"Of course not," Sherlock sniffed. "But you saw me check the time and reacted with surprise then checked your own watch. Given that traffic has slowed dramatically, it's a logical conclusion."

"Oh," John said. "Well. Amazing."

"Hardly," his boss commented. "Elementary, really." He waved a hand, looking bored, and John wondered what it must be like to think like him. He was pretty sure Sherlock qualified as a genius – everything he'd ever seen of him pointed firmly in that direction. John knew a lot of smart people – he was one himself – but Sherlock's intellect went above and beyond that. He remembered reading somewhere that children who were geniuses were often bored. Did the same apply to adults who were geniuses?

He settled into silence for a few minutes and the car crawled forward at a snail's pace. John tugged absently on the sleeves of his new suit jacket and then smoothed his palms down his thighs, over the fine wool trousers.

"Can I ask you something else?" he finally enquired, having worked up the courage.

"Of course. Although, as always, it does not guarantee an answer."

John nodded; he suspected he probably wouldn't get one.

"How long have you been doing this?"

Sherlock turned to look at John again, a small smile tugging on his lips.

"Organised crime or real estate?" he asked.

John came up blank for a moment, then shook his head, knowing what his answer was.

"Crime," he sighed.

"Twenty years."

"Twenty – _Twenty years_? How old are you?"

"Thirty-two," Sherlock replied smoothly.

John stared at him, then shut his mouth with a snap, his teeth clicking together.

'Thirty-two," he repeated woodenly. "You're thirty-two."

"Mm, yes, I am," Sherlock replied.

"Since you were _twelve_?"

"Well, admittedly, my early enterprises were not nearly as sophisticated or far reaching," Sherlock said, as if copping to some sort of huge character flaw.

"But twelve? What could you do at twelve? Nick your parents' wallets for a few pounds?"

Sherlock gave him a long look.

"I suspect my parents very rarely carry money and when they do, I find the idea of them carrying anything as small as a pound difficult to imagine. I come from a very wealthy background, John. I'm not some rags-to-riches success story – I was already rich. I've only made myself richer and done so in my own right. I could have lived my entire life on the trust fund my parents established for me when I was born."

John stared again – he'd suspected Sherlock of being upper class, but it was one thing to think that and another thing to have it confirmed. It had been just possible that Sherlock had been a self made man and that the unthinking arrogance and superiority were a result of his intelligence and his own money. But it made more sense that he'd always been privileged.

"Oh," John said. "Oh." He shook his head to clear it. "But what could you do at twelve?"

"I worked out how to steal the crystal skull from the British Museum," Sherlock said in a bored tone.

"What?" John demanded. "What?" He searched his memory, trying to recall any stories of the iconic carved glass skull going missing. "I don't remember it being stolen!"

"No, it wasn't," Sherlock said. "I said I worked out how to do it, not that I actually did it. I've since revised the plans to incorporate advances in security technology, although, to be fair, those same advances come with new weaknesses. The initial plan was sound and would have worked. But disposing of it would have been difficult. I certainly didn't have the contacts at twelve to sell it and not get caught. Now it's not worth it – I wouldn't make enough money from it."

John stared, then closed his eyes hard.

"So – what was your first – job?"

"I stole a piece from the National Gallery and sold it to a private collector for thirty thousand pounds. Not a very valuable piece, admittedly, but an accomplishment for a fourteen year old."

"_Fourteen_?" John repeated.

Sherlock gave him an amused look.

"I _am_ a genius, John. A proper genius, too, not one of those vaguely intelligent people who feels entitled to call himself a genius to appease his own self esteem. It was quite simple, really."

"Oh, right, I suppose you just walked in and took it and walked out."

"Precisely," Sherlock replied.

John stared at him again. Sherlock sighed, waving a hand vaguely.

"They were renovating one of the galleries, John. This means workmen coming and going at all hours and all the paintings and other artwork removed or carefully covered to avoid damaging them. It was a simple matter of obtaining a set of worker's coveralls and passing myself off as one the work crew, then finding somewhere to hide until the museum had closed. I took the painting in question from its frame, rolled it up, and walked out with it wrapped in a painter's tarp the following day."

John leaned his head against the headrest and exhaled slowly.

"Did they ever find it?" he asked, staring at the car's leather roof. He risked a glance down at Sherlock, who was giving him a bright smile.

"No."

John pressed his hands over his eyes. Well, he'd been right about two things. One was that Sherlock was a genius. The other was that John was better off ignoring any twinges of attraction to his boss, because this was utterly mad.

"After that, it became fairly straightforward. I've always had a talent for reading people and disguising myself." He shrugged, as though this were unremarkable. "I put it to good use."

"Good use," John said. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to you to – I don't know, go into law enforcement? The way you think, the way you read people, you'd probably single handedly replace the city's entire police force."

Sherlock sniffed.

"Do you know what the average police detective in London makes?" he asked.

"No," John said.

"About fifty thousand pounds per year."

"But you said you had a trust fund!"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, then flashed him a lightning quick grin that seemed almost cold. "But I also want to have fun."

John drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Sherlock was still giving him a pleasant look and the smile on his lips and the light in his eyes was not helping matters much. Nor was being trapped in a car with him where – John suddenly realised – his expensive and subtle cologne had permeated the space between them.

_Get a grip, John_, he told himself firmly. _You're thirty-eight, not eighteen. You can handle a little bit of misplaced lust. Get over it._

They started moving again more steadily and John let out another slow breath, feeling relief course through him. He was looking forward to getting out of the car and out of this strange situation.

"And what about the real estate part of it?" he asked to distract himself.

"Oh," Sherlock said. "I purchased some property in Spain when I was fifteen. My brother was looking at buying it and the sellers were giving him a poor deal. I managed to get them to reduce their rate by forty percent, which was a fair market price. For me."

"Fifteen," John muttered. "So, what, now you pick up geniuses and train them to think and work the way you do?"

"True genius is rare, John, but intelligent people are not, although it often seems so. Only a fool surrounds himself with fools. Since I am not a fool, I surround myself with highly intelligent people. What I can do naturally and easily, other people can be taught to do. If this were not the case, we'd have no police force. I simply select people who are brighter than the average – or above average – police officer. It ensures I stay out of their investigations and ensures that good work gets done."

John sighed inwardly. The worst he'd ever done was nick a couple of chocolate bars as a teenager. He'd eaten them, then felt guilty. Yet here he was in the company of a man who'd stolen a work of art at the age of fourteen, made thirty thousand pounds from it, and had never been caught.

"Here we are," Sherlock said, cutting through his thoughts. John refocused, looking out the tinted window at the tall, imposing glass building. Gerald pulled up to the curb smoothly and stopped the car then opened the door for each of them in turn. John followed Sherlock into the building, trying not to stare at the obvious opulence of the bank – it was a far cry from the HSBC on the corner where he did his banking.

They approached the desk and a pretty young woman wearing a headset and sitting behind the counter smiled brightly at them.

"Welcome to Shad Sanderson," she said. "How may I help you?"

John glanced up and Sherlock and saw the slight curl of distaste on his lips as he replied:

"Sherlock Holmes. Here to see Sebastian Wilkes."


	39. Chapter 39

**A/N:** for you, **AGirloftheSouth**.

* * *

><p>Sherlock steeled himself imperceptibly in the lift on the way up to meet with Sebastian, knowing John wouldn't notice. As a doctor, John was quite perceptive and presumably he'd been adept at assessing threats in Afghanistan because he'd come out of it alive. Injured but alive. Like most people, however, he didn't bother extending that training to the rest of his life and missed any number of small cues. Sherlock was fairly certain John was inobservant about himself as well. For instance, he tugged on his sleeves when he was nervous or about to do something that required courage. He also had a tendency to sit with his physician's bag between his feet in the car, as though to protect it or keep it close. Sherlock suspected that it was a combination of both of these. An open sentimentalist, as he'd commented to Sibyl.<p>

He wished suddenly that he were back in Buckinghamshire and recognised this as a displacement activity. He would rather be almost anywhere than here, dealing with Sebastian Wilkes again. How long had it been since they'd seen each other? He did a quick calculation – eight years. Avoiding Sebastian had been simple. Sherlock had just sent others to meet with the insufferable man on his behalf. Gabriel had taken over this function completely a little over two years ago. At the time, Sherlock had privately rejoiced at never having to lay eyes on Sebastian again.

He strongly disliked being wrong.

Even a meeting with Jim would almost be preferable. Although this was likely to be shorter. Shorter, more tedious, and entirely full of hot air.

Sebastian's secretary – poor woman – met them at the lift and ushered them to his office. Sherlock barely bothered to glance around as he entered. It was smaller than his own office, less cluttered, commanded a less respectable view, and was populated by one entirely unpleasant person.

"Sherlock!" Sebastian exclaimed, as if his arrival were a complete surprise. "Buddy! Good to see you again! Eight years, eh?"

"Indeed," Sherlock said, suffering through the obligatory handshake. He evaluated Sebastian quickly – he'd put on about ten pounds in the intervening years and his face was creased with lines he'd never sported in university. He was sleeping poorly and eating worse although not drinking excessively nor smoking. He hadn't been a smoker at Cambridge, but these things could change, particularly when one was under stress. The faint circles under his eyes were being kept partially hidden by some kind of rejuvenating cosmetic cream – there was a faint smudge of it by the corner of his left eye. The way in which he moved indicated fatigue that was being masked by joviality and false energy.

So. He was aware that something was wrong, which explained the lack of sleep and poor eating habits. Although the diet of pub food in which Sebastian had indulged whenever possible at university had also caught up with him. Sherlock suspected he hadn't changed his patterns nor had he increased his physical activity in response. The softness around the line of his jaw told him as much.

Sherlock gave a false little smile, taking a moment to gloat triumphantly to himself. He looked far better than Sebastian Wilkes could ever hope to and he knew it. Of course, he'd always looked better.

"Seb," he replied, his voice not quite warm. "It hasn't been quite long enough, has it?"

Sebastian laughed broadly, as if this were some witty joke between them. Sherlock twitched his eyebrows up and tried to repress an irritated sigh. Sebastian had always been loud, brash, and boorish.

And Sherlock had endured two years as his roommate in university. The housing committee had been staffed by idiots, in his opinion. It was no wonder he'd spent as many nights as possible at Charles' flat. Of course, Sebastian was not really the primary reason for that. Getting away from him had simply been an added bonus.

"Great to see you again, Sherlock, really," Sebastian said, then cast a quick, questioning look at John.

"Ah," Sherlock said, as if he had just remembered that introductions would be in order. "Sebastian, Doctor John Watson. Doctor Watson, Sebastian Wilkes."

Sherlock was pleased and impressed when John shook Sebastian's hand firmly with a silent nod.

"Call me Baz," Sebastian said to John, but threw a quick wink Sherlock's way. Sherlock refrained from commenting – barely. Baz now, was it? The man only got more insufferable with age.

"John," John replied evenly.

Sherlock could see Sebastian trying to size up the doctor and figure him out. He kept a smile to himself. His former roommate clearly wanted further explanation, but Sherlock was happy to strengthen Sebastian's character by forcing him to deal with disappointment.

"Replaced your man Mitchell?" Sebastian asked.

"No. Gabriel Mitchell is currently engaged on other business for me," Sherlock lied smoothly.

"And so you come yourself. Always figured you'd come round eventually. It's a small world, as they say." He gestured at the two chairs opposite his desk and Sherlock sat down. John waited half a moment before doing the same and Sherlock was impressed again. John was treating him as a superior officer in this situation. Sherlock was pleased by this. It showed a good response to intuition.

"We used to know each other in uni," Sebastian said conversationally to John, who returned his gaze neutrally. "Everyone hated this guy. He'd come for breakfast in the formal hall and he'd be able to tell you just by looking who was shagging and who was gay. Brilliant stuff."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and managed to bite back on a sigh; Sebastian hadn't changed a bit. Really, it wasn't difficult to tell who was shagging if one just paid attention to the subtle flicker of eyes, the attempts at discreet touching, the mixed scents of pheromones and perfumes. As for those who were gay – that was fairly straightforward. He and Charles had gone clubbing occasionally and run into these others. But Sebastian probably had difficulty recognising his own reflection. Or he would have, had he not been so fond of looking at it.

"How's Charles, by the way?" Sebastian asked.

And sometimes, Sebastian had the most irritating way of pointedly bringing up topics that were not appropriate. Sherlock wanted to shut down on that fast – there was only so much he wanted Sebastian to know about his personal life, and that was absolutely nothing at all. He hadn't been able to avoid it while in uni but he could do so now.

"He's fine," Sherlock replied coolly. He knew John was wondering about their mutual acquaintance but was keeping himself neutral, which was good. If Sebastian saw an opening, he'd take it.

"Still in France?"

"I assume so," Sherlock said, as if he had no idea.

"And Cheryl? I heard she works for you."

_And where did you hear that?_ Sherlock wondered, because it certainly hadn't been from Cheryl herself. He saw John react minutely to the mention of her name; the doctor had met Cheryl once or twice already.

"Yes, she does. She's well. I'll tell her you enquired after her."

Sebastian flipped a business card toward Sherlock.

"Have her call me sometime," he said with what he thought was a conspiratorial grin. Without so much as looking at John, Sherlock held up the card between his index and middle fingers and the doctor took it nimbly and tucked it into his suit jacket.

"So, what can I do for you?" Sebastian asked, picking up a pen and holding each end between his thumbs and index fingers. He leaned back in his chair, giving them a broad grin. Sherlock despised that grin. "Investment advice? Looking at expanding into some new markets?"

Sherlock repressed a sneer and let the comment pass. He was not about to take business advice from Sebastian Wilkes. The man evidently counted himself as successful. Yet the suits that Sherlock and John were wearing were worth easily twice as much as Sebastian's monthly salary.

"I do not need your services," Sherlock replied, letting a cool hint slip into his voice. Sebastian raised his eyebrows, waiting. "Rather, I've come to do something for you."

At this, Sebastian tossed the pen on his desk and sat up. He laced his fingers together, propped his elbows on the desk's surface and leaned forward with a knowing grin.

"Oh yeah?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said smoothly. "One of your account managers is smuggling stolen goods into the country."

He felt a sharp stab of victory when Sebastian drew back suddenly, eyes widening, expression going slack with shock. It made him look even more like a startled fish than he normally did. Sherlock gave a small smile, arching an eyebrow. John had reacted with surprise at the announcement as well but Sebastian hadn't noticed.

"What?" Sebastian demanded, narrowing his eyes somewhat. "How do you know that?"

"I have my sources. I am very good at getting information I want, Sebastian. You know that."

Sebastian nodded automatically. He opened his mouth to say something, reconsidered, then shut it. His eyes dropped away for a moment before meeting Sherlock's again. If it were anyone else, Sherlock may have felt a pang of sympathy for him – the expression on Sebastian's face clearly told Sherlock that he was confirming the banker's worst suspicions.

"Can you tell me who?" Sebastian asked, his voice quiet, without its usual forced cheer.

"Edward Van Coon," Sherlock replied.

Sebastian stared at him, then a flash of anger darkened his features.

"This is a very serious allegation," he said. "You know that this alone could ruin his career, even if it's unfounded."

"And I suspect a bullet in his brain will be equally detrimental to his career. This has the added bonus of preserving his life."

"Are you saying he's being threatened?"

"If he isn't yet, he will be. He's working for an international smuggling operation, Sebastian. These people are generally not inclined to being reasonable or tolerating mistakes. And he's made at least one mistake."

"What's that?" Sebastian asked, his voice still a bit hollow.

"Me," Sherlock said. "If I can find out, so can others. He's at risk. And if he's exposed or murdered, how do you think that will reflect on you?"

Sebastian started visibly again and Sherlock could see he hadn't considered that yet. He should have – but the fact that he hadn't only confirmed once again how much of an idiot Sebastian was. Blundering his way through life, never really paying attention.

"If you look into his records and his business trips to Hong Kong, you will begin to see a pattern. I suspect it will only be rumours and suggestions at the surface, but not once you dig deeper. And, as you said, rumours are sufficient in this business. I suggest that if you want to keep your job and avoid having charges laid against you, you will take my information seriously and begin investigating Van Coon. Unless, of course, you want the police swarming in here, poking about, uncovering god knows what else."

That suggestion made Sebastian pale a bit and he shook his head.

"These people – the smugglers – do you know who they are?"

"I do," Sherlock said. "But it is in your best interest that you do not. Believe me, Sebastian, you are not equipped to deal with them."

"And you are?" Sebastian shot back. It may have been a clever question, but Sherlock suspected it was no more than a means of deflecting the conversation away from an unpleasant topic.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "And I have nothing to do with this. I'm simply providing you with information. If anyone asks why I was here, you were assisting me with some investment advice."

He smiled one of his brief, bright grins and Sebastian nodded mechanically.

"But – how am I supposed to pin anything on him if you want me to stay away from the smuggling angle?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes again; he couldn't help it. It was like having to spoon-feed an infant. No, he corrected himself. Because he'd seen an infant learn eat and David had caught onto the concept much faster than Sebastian took to anything at all.

"Look into his financial activity," Sherlock prompted. "Business expenses, transfers, accounts, investments – everything he does for the Hong Kong desk. I guarantee that you will find malfeasance there. Let the police deal with the possibility of smuggling when it comes up – because it _will_ come up."

"Are you going to talk to them, too?" Sebastian asked.

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed. He'd spoken with the police more than enough in the past month to last him another decade. Any more interaction with him and they would become more suspicious than they already were. The last thing he needed was Lestrade or Donovan poking around, digging into his life. He suspected they were like terriers. If they caught his scent, they'd dig until they found something.

"Van Coon will talk to protect himself," he replied. "The longer he's in prison, the safer he will be."

Safety was relative, of course. If these people could get priceless artifacts out of China, they could get themselves into a British prison. But Sebastian hadn't realised that and Sherlock withheld the information, knowing that providing it would give Sebastian more reason to hesitate.

As entertaining as it would be to see Sebastian dragged down with this, it wouldn't accomplish his goal. Jim would see this as retribution for Richard's actions – which was precisely how Sherlock wanted him to see it. One more play in the game, but it appeared to be a reaction to Jim's gambit. Jim was used to Sherlock responding to what he did, and he'd grown comfortable with their apparent roles.

_Good_, Sherlock thought.

Sebastian rubbed a hand over his eyes and gave Sherlock a pleading look. He wanted to be told that none of this was true. Sherlock returned the gaze levelly, schooling his expression to neutral. Beside him, John was still sitting straight-backed and had eased the shock from his own features, falling back on his army training.

"I suggest starting with his secretary," Sherlock said. "If anyone has noticed anything suspicious, it will be her."

Sebastian gave a slow nod, then pushed himself back from his desk.

"I will," he said in a voice that told Sherlock that he meant it. Anger was beginning to take over from the shock. Anger and fear. He didn't want this coming back round to him without his knowledge or permission. Sebastian would take this all the way to keep himself afloat. He was far, far too fond of his salary and his trappings and his freedom to even chance losing them.

"Good," Sherlock said, rising. John stood half a moment after him, standing not quite at attention. Sherlock noted the firm set of John's shoulders and jaw – he wasn't giving Sebastian any hint of comfort in this situation.

Sherlock held out his hand and Sebastian hesitated only a moment before shaking it again. Gone was the smarmy attitude he'd had at the beginning of the meeting. Sherlock enjoyed seeing Sebastian so discomfited – it was almost as good as scoring a victory against his brother.

"Good-bye, Sebastian," he said.

"Good-bye, Sherlock," Sebastian replied. He hesitated, then said: "Thanks for this."

"Mm," Sherlock replied noncommittally and nodded to John. John took the cue and opened the door for him, letting Sherlock stride out, leaving a stunned and dismayed Sebastian behind him. Sherlock did not envy his former roommate the next several months. He suspected they would involve a lot less sleep and a lot more drink, but that was not his problem.

He and John rode the lift down in silence and left the building into the weak February sunshine that filtered through the low-lying clouds. Gerald was waiting for them at the car and opened the doors for them. Sherlock settled against the leather, letting his body relax. He exhaled a slow, deep breath, glad to be rid of Sebastian again. He wondered how long he could go without seeing the banker again and resolved to double his current record.

"I bet he thinks he's a real lady's man," John said as the car moved into traffic.

The suddenness and unexpectedness of the comment caught Sherlock off guard and he laughed sharply before he could stop himself.

"Yes, he most certainly does," he murmured.

"And I bet he's wrong."

Sherlock glanced over at his physician and grinned. John had a way of surprising him that remained unexpected and delightful.

"Cheryl would agree with you on that."

"How does he know her?" John asked.

"She went to Cambridge with us," Sherlock said. "It is how I know her and why she works for me."

"And Sebastian? Sorry – Baz," he corrected himself and Sherlock snickered. Actually snickered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd snickered, but the nickname was so absurd – and fitting in its stupidity.

"How do you know him?" John asked. "He doesn't really seem like the type of person you'd be chummy with."

_Chummy?_ Sherlock thought. He hardly thought he was "chummy" with anyone, but let it pass. John was fond of such casual slang.

"No," Sherlock agreed, cocking an eyebrow. "I had the distinct misfortune of being his roommate for two extremely long years."

"Really?" John asked and Sherlock nodded. The doctor pulled a face. "Sorry about that. That sounds unpleasant."

"Oh, you have no idea," Sherlock murmured.

"And Charles?"

"Another friend of mine," Sherlock replied. "He also attended Cambridge with me. He's my regional manager in France."

"I thought you said you weren't sure if he's there?"

"Yes. Sebastian has an unfortunate and unshakeable tendency to hallucinate that we are friends. He therefore imagines familiarity with everyone I knew in university. The less he knows about the people I know, the more fulfilling my life is. Charles is more difficult to track than Cheryl, simply because Cheryl lives in London."

John nodded and Sherlock saw that he was satisfied.

"So what now?" the doctor asked.

Sherlock checked his phone and sighed.

"I would normally suggest a drink following something so unpleasant, but given that it is only a few minutes past ten in the morning, this is unlikely to be a good idea. Back to work. I have meetings and you have patients."

John grinned and glanced out the window.

"But martinis may be in order at lunch," Sherlock said firmly.

"I don't know," John replied. "My boss might have something to say about that."

"Indeed he does," Sherlock replied. "He insists that you join him."


	40. Chapter 40

**A/N:** glad to have my beta, **nellytheninkynonk** back online. How did this get to be 40 chapters long? Why won't it end? Drinks with the boss - you asked for it, you got it.

* * *

><p>"Do you ever consider the human brain?" Sherlock asked.<p>

"Sorry?" John replied.

They were in some fancy Italian restaurant – fancy by John's standards, probably mediocre by Sherlock's, although he seemed to know the owner, an exuberant man named Angelo. He'd greeted Sherlock with genuine enthusiasm, giving them what he called his best table – it didn't look any different than any of the others to John – and even providing them with a candle for some reason. Sherlock had taken this in stride and had waved the owner off after they'd ordered their drinks.

Now he was sitting with his chair turned slightly at an angle to the table, his long legs crossed to the knee, gazing absently out the window onto the busy street. John followed his gaze, but there seemed to be nothing of interest there. Pedestrians with umbrellas, cars gliding through puddles.

"The human brain," Sherlock repeated. "It's a fascinating thing, don't you think?"

"Certainly very complex," John agreed. "We – I mean medical science – don't really know that much about it, even now."

"Mm," Sherlock said, refocusing when Angelo appeared with their drinks. Sherlock really had ordered a martini, so John had followed suit. After all, it was not as though anyone could argue with him about it.

"Thank you, Angelo," Sherlock said.

"Anything to eat, Sherlock?"

"Today's special," Sherlock said, waving a hand vaguely. "John?"

"Fettuccini alfredo," John replied. Angelo nodded and left them alone again. John waited, but Sherlock stayed silent for a few minutes, apparently just thinking.

"Yes, I can see that it remains a mystery," he said, nodding to himself. "For instance, why is it, do you think, that time has dulled my memory of how tedious Sebastian is? Should I not remember that with equal clarity?"

John shook his head and smiled slightly. Sherlock picked up his martini glass, considered it, then flashed John one of his bright grins.

"But perhaps this is the answer. Am I killing the synapses that store this information with alcohol?" He sipped his drink, then paused before making a dissatisfied face.

"No," he sighed. "I still recall the meeting far too clearly."

John laughed; he couldn't help it.

"It's hard to say why some things we remember clearly and others we don't."

"Effort," Sherlock replied. "No one applies any real effort to recalling the things that are important."

"If that's true then it means you're not putting in enough effort to remember how unpleasant Sebastian is."

Sherlock considered this, biting his lower lip thoughtfully.

"Probably for the best," he said. "Any effort concerning Sebastian is effort wasted. My time is far better spent doing anything else." He sighed, tapping the stem of his glass with his long fingers. "But I suppose we can't always do only what we want."

"No," John agreed.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and sighed.

"Dull," he commented.

John raised his eyebrows.

"Well, life can't be all fun and games."

"I suppose not," his boss commented, sipping his drink again. John tried his – it was very good. Whoever had made it knew how to make it properly.

"I've never done this before," John commented.

"Had a martini with lunch?" Sherlock asked, nodding at John's drink.

"Nope," John agreed, sipping it again. "Always seemed like a City boy thing to do. Plus, being in the army, drinking on your lunch break is generally frowned upon. Off duty – that's another thing."

"I suspect you're more of a beer man," Sherlock said and John didn't bother asking how he knew. He'd probably pegged him as that the moment he'd met him.

"And gin."

"Gin? Just gin? Straight up?"

"You take what you can get in the middle of the desert," John replied with a grin.

"Mm, I suppose so," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, however, but it's never been a habit of mine, either. Oh, for appearances sake I will occasionally order one with lunch, but I am generally disinclined to drink much. Alcohol is a great leveller and I do not enjoy being brought down to the level of the masses."

John grinned – he had no problems being one of the masses, but wasn't at all surprised at Sherlock's slight sneer when he mentioned it.

"I can't really see you as the type to have a beer in a pub," John admitted. Sherlock rolled his eyes but his lips twitched with a smile. "I bet you'd clean the floor with your opponents in pub quizzes though."

"I try not to fill my head with useless trivia," Sherlock sighed.

"So what do you do for fun then?"

Sherlock paused and considered John for a moment while Angelo brought them their meals.

"I find my job quite satisfying," he replied. "And it does require a lot of my time."

"But you must have some hobbies," John said. "Things you do when you're not working."

"I play the violin quite well," Sherlock replied. "I'm also particularly fond of the new Doctor Who series."

"Oh, right, I knew that," John said. "I didn't know about the violin though."

"I've been playing since I was five. My mother taught me. I also enjoy reading – there is nothing quite so satisfying as a good book."

John got the impression that Sherlock's idea of a good book differed from his own – he had the look of a man who read classics in their original languages as much as possible and did so with enjoyment. John like trashy thrillers and mysteries – there was something gratifying about the escapism, the way he could shut his brain off and not have to think about what he was reading.

"What about exercise? Sports?"

Sherlock's lip curled slightly at the idea and John repressed a chuckle – he hadn't imagined his boss was the type for team sports. "Team player" was probably not a term that had ever been applied to him. John tucked into his pasta while awaiting an answer – it was delicious and he made a mental note to come here more often. It was just around the corner, after all.

"Sports? No. Tedious. I have a personal trainer. She is very… insistent that I keep to an exercise regime. I find it boring."

"Well, she's right," John said. "It's good for you."

Sherlock sighed.

"So she tells me," he muttered. "And she's quite vehement about the importance of a balanced diet as well." He gestured vaguely to his penne with salmon in a cream sauce.

"She's right about that, too."

"Please tell me you have not met her and that the two of you are not colluding," Sherlock said sharply. John laughed.

"I am a doctor," he reminded his boss. "I know these things."

"I did try sky diving once," Sherlock offered. John glanced up from his meal, surprised.

"Really?" he asked. He'd hated that training in the army. The idea that someone would jump out of a perfectly serviceable aeroplane for fun was beyond him.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "It was dull."

"Dull?" John asked. "Dull? I don't think I've ever heard it described as dull. Terrifying, exhilarating, addictive, maybe. An adrenaline rush. But dull?"

Sherlock shrugged, spearing some penne on his fork.

"You jump, you fall, you land," he said. "Certainly the view is something to be appreciated but no more so than in a helicopter or from an aeroplane. The sensation of falling is – uncomfortable. I found the whole thing rather disappointing."

"When did you go?" John asked.

"I was eighteen, I believe."

An eighteen year old boy had found sky diving dull and disappointing, John realised. But then he shook his head and reminded himself it was the same boy who had stolen a thirty thousand pound painting from the National Gallery four years previous to that. No wonder he found the mere act of jumping out of an aeroplane, saved only from certain splattering death by rope and nylon, to be dull and disappointing.

"And you, John?" Sherlock asked, adding some pepper to his pasta. "When you are not at work or at war, what do you do? Have you finished your work on that dresser?"

"Oh yeah," John said, nodding. He'd forgotten that Sherlock had seen that. "I've got that done, yeah. To be honest, I'm just starting to pick up where I left off. My leg's getting stronger and I need to start running again, maybe find a gym. It's hard, being injured. You forget what it was like before, you don't realise how much strength you've lost. So there's that. And – I don't know, I do crosswords. Read, too. Jamie's got some information on weekend classes in sign language – I'll go to that as well. Right now, it's nice just to do whatever I want and not have to worry about it. I mean, keeping Mrs. Hudson in mind, of course."

Sherlock nodded as if he hadn't seriously considered the possibility that John would forget his charge. John wasn't too surprised. Sherlock probably read him like an open book and knew he wouldn't shirk his responsibilities to someone in his care. After all, that was half of why he'd been hired.

John realised suddenly that he'd been spending time in the company of a man who was extraordinarily perceptive and to whom he was attracted. The thought made him choke on the water he'd been sipping, and he was perversely glad for the genuine distraction. He nodded, coughing, when Sherlock asked with real concern if he was all right.

_Goddammit,_ John thought. He really, really hoped Sherlock either hadn't picked up on the attraction or had misattributed it to something else, like discomfort about being around the head of a successful organised crime syndicate. He managed to get his breathing back under his control, coughing a bit more then clearing his throat.

And, he realised, he had no idea what Sherlock's sexual preferences were. He'd assumed at the beginning that his boss was gay because he'd thought Sherlock was in a relationship with Gabriel, but he'd been proven wrong about that. Yes, he was gorgeous – no sense in mincing words, he was – and obviously concerned about his looks, but that could be vanity. He dressed well, but of course he dressed well. Part of his business was looking the part and he said he played on people's reactions. And he was definitely a man who appreciated the finer things in life – he'd said that, too – so it wasn't surprising that he took such care of his appearance.

The odds were that he was straight, although John admitted to himself that he had no real idea one way or the other.

_Well there you go_, he told himself. _One more reason to stop this nonsense._

He supposed he could just ask outright if Sherlock had a girlfriend or a boyfriend, but somehow, doing so while sitting in a fancy Italian restaurant over drinks with a candle on the table between them seemed a little too suggestive.

"Do you know if they've sent Williams back to the United States?" he asked, keeping the conversation focused on Mrs. Hudson, a safe topic.

"Not yet," Sherlock said and John was certain his boss was following each step carefully. "I believe he'd scheduled to be flown out in early March. These matters are always complicated by bureaucracy."

John nodded. He refrained from asking any more about Mrs. Hudson's ex-husband or his people. Sherlock had told him earlier that too much knowledge was a dangerous thing and John was inclined to agree, especially in this case. He and Jamie kept a sharp eye on things. Sherlock had conveniently provided both of them with gun certificates and Jamie with a gun – the mechanic hadn't smuggled his service revolver home, having been unconscious most of the time between being injured and being returned to England. They went to a firing range once a week for practice but it wasn't taking long for the habit to come back. John wasn't in the least bit surprised by that.

"The renovations to the C flat are on schedule," Sherlock informed him, and John nodded. He saw the workers coming and going on a daily basis and Jamie occasionally went down to check on what they were doing. Mrs. Hudson seemed delighted to no end and had commented that she'd never thought she could rent that unit because of the damp.

"And how is your sister's recovery programme progressing?" Sherlock asked. John felt a moment's astonishment, then shook it away – _of course_ Sherlock knew Harry was in AA. He probably knew all the names of all the people who attended the meetings she went to as well.

"She's doing well," John said, paused, then added: "Thanks for asking."

It seemed odd that a man like Sherlock would be concerned about someone like Harry – after all, he was making money off of her. Although, technically John supposed this wasn't true, since a portion the money he was being paid was just turning round and going straight back into Sherlock's coffers. It suddenly all felt too bizarre.

"Good," Sherlock murmured. "Always such a pity to see families fall out over such unfortunate circumstances."

John looked up at him, trying to gauge if he were serious or if he were speaking from personal experience, but it seemed like just a neutral, off handed comment.

And that was one of the strange things about talking to his boss. The conversation could be at once personal and indifferent, as if Sherlock had no regard for social conventions and boundaries. Well, clearly he didn't or he wouldn't be a criminal swanking about in a ten thousand pound suit, employing assassins and former soldiers alike. He wouldn't talk so plainly about having stolen a painting at fourteen from the National Gallery and having resold it for several tens of thousands of pounds.

He had no worries John would go to the police, the doctor realised. John was armed with enough information to at least give the police a starting point, but Sherlock didn't even seem to have considered the possibility.

_Damn_, John thought. He was right. He'd been read like a book that first day in his tiny halfway house flat. Sherlock probably knew everything John didn't want him to know – including, he thought with an inward sigh, the misplaced attraction.

_Well, at least he's had the decency not to say anything_, he told himself. He was gracious about that, anyway, if not about other things. Maybe he just didn't want to call attention to it, which was fine with John.

Despite it all, he couldn't help liking Sherlock. Not just finding him attractive, genuinely liking him. He was a contradiction in so many respects – he'd told John straight out he wasn't a nice man but had arranged with his brother to have Tricia speak to them on MI5 video conferencing equipment. He had a trust fund and his own personal fortune, yet was thrilled to have HobNobs with his tea and routinely nicked his best friend's Doctor Who DVDs. He dressed in bespoke suits but liked John's jumpers because they were, in his words, 'fuzzy'.

He was hands down the most interesting person John had ever met. After so long in limbo in the halfway house doing nothing but trying to recover a life that had been stolen away from him, John appreciated that. He realised that, despite the illegality of it all, he actually enjoyed this job and this new life. Not just because he was working again, putting his skills as both a doctor and a soldier to good use.

But because it was _fun_.

That was Sherlock in a nutshell, he thought. He wanted to have fun, in whatever way he decided qualified as fun.

And John was surprised to admit to himself that he was more than happy to be going along for the ride.


	41. Chapter 41

They were two days from their transfer to Kabul, which someone in her unit had oh-so-hilariously named "T-Day", when Tricia came off an early duty shift at the field hospital and found she had a new bunkmate.

Sarah Watson was grinning at her when she walked through the door, sitting on her narrow bunk, legs extended, boots still on her feet. She was in full fatigues – full regular Army fatigues, right down to the Red Cross patches on her arms.

"'Morning," the nurse said casually, tipping her another grin and Tricia shut the door behind her with a definitive click.

"What the hell is going on?" she hissed.

"Reassignment," Watson replied.

"Reassignment? I didn't know MI5 could just reassign their officers to the army at the drop of a hat."

"Well hardly the drop of a hat," Watson commented. "It's been a week."

Tricia threw her hands up in the air and rolled her eyes.

"Where's Lieutenant Masters gone then?" she asked.

"She's just been moved," Watson assured her. "She's still going to Kabul with us."

"Us, eh?" Tricia demanded.

"I did say I'd been reassigned. And not just my sleeping arrangements." Watson grinned again – she seemed to be getting far too much enjoyment out of this whole affair. Tricia shook her head then sat down on her own bunk, leaning forward to unlace her boots. It wasn't the first time she'd been assigned a new bunkmate – these sort of changes happened – but it was the first time she was sharing with an MI5 officer. The thought would have sat ill with her, had she not been tired and in need of some rest. If she'd learned nothing else from her time in the army, she'd learned to sleep through almost anything.

"No, don't, I need you to come with me first," Watson said. "Sorry, I know you must be tired, but there's a couple of things we need to take care of."

At this, Tricia raised her head and narrowed her eyes.

"Is there?" she asked, her voice definitely bordering on snappish. She had no idea what was going on – MI5 could play whatever games they wanted, it had nothing to do with her.

Except it seemed that it did.

"Mm-hmm," Watson commented and swung herself from her bunk in a smooth movement. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking down at Tricia expectantly.

"'Mm-hmm'?" Tricia asked. "You expect me to come with you on the basis of 'mm-hmm'? I don't even know where we're going."

"Same place as last week. Not for the same thing, unfortunately."

Tricia sighed and straightened herself and Watson put on her parka. Tricia stayed resolutely sitting down and Watson turned back to her, arching her eyebrows.

"We could stay here and try and outrank each other, but both being captains, we might be here for awhile. It really shouldn't take long and I can explain once we're there – a bit anyway."

"So you're really a captain?" Tricia asked.

"I am," Watson replied.

"And Sarah Watson is really your name?"

"Yes, it is. Born Sarah Sawyer, married a man named Tate Watson six years ago."

"Tate?"

"Thomas, really, but everyone calls him Tate. After one of his uncles."

Tricia shrugged – she didn't really care.

"So, Captain Sarah Watson, née Sawyer, MI5, pretending to be regular Army."

"Not pretending. Reassigned. It's all official and legit. It's where I started, too. And it's only for the next six months."

"Oh, well, that's a coincidence," Tricia retorted. "As my tour is up in six months."

"It _is_ a coincidence, isn't it?" Watson replied.

"I doubt it," Tricia snorted. Watson grinned.

"You're right, obviously. Come with me, Captain. I promise I'll explain what I can when we get there. It's not everything and you probably won't find it entirely satisfactory, but it will be more than you know now."

Tricia sighed again, then planted her palms on her thighs and pushed herself to her feet.

"Bring your other pair of boots," Watson said, gesturing to the spare pair in the corner.

"Are you going to tell me why?" Tricia demanded.

"Not here."

Tricia hesitated out of sheer stubbornness then picked up the boots, keeping a few choice curses to herself. She tied the laces together so that she could carry them easily, then slung over her left shoulder. She followed Watson through the bustling camp to the MI5 offices. At this time of day, they were far more staffed than they had been the last time she'd been there. She received a few curious looks that were smoothed over quickly – her rank apparently did hold sway here. She wondered how many of these people were spies, then thought perhaps she had to stop thinking that this was all very James Bond. The real work was probably tedious and nothing near glamorous – as with everything. Certainly James Bond wouldn't have been reassigned to be bunkmate to an army surgeon.

_Anyway, that's MI6_, she reminded herself. Jamie would have corrected her immediately. He loved those movies, the older ones especially. She sighed and tried not to think about him, but the last time she'd been here, she'd actually got to speak to him. She missed seeing him, more than she was willing to admit, if only because it was easier not to acknowledge it.

"In here," Watson said, leading her through a door that looked like every other door in the place. There was a young lieutenant seated in front of some sophisticated computer equipment – although Tricia was willing to admit anything more than a laptop seemed sophisticated in this place. He stood and saluted when they came in. Both women shed their parkas, draping them over the back of an empty desk chair.

"As you were, Lieutenant Arji," Watson said and he nodded, regaining his seat. "Does it work?"

"Yes, ma'am," he assured her. "I have Jensen taking them out for a quick jog around the camp, but he'll be back in a few minutes. I can do the boots now, if you want."

"I do," Watson said and gestured for Tricia's spare pair of boots. "And the ones you're wearing."

"What?"

Watson smiled at her – it wasn't a cheeky grin this time, but an understanding smile. Tricia kept her spare boots in her hand and kept the ones she was wearing resolutely on her feet.

"Come and look," Watson said. "Lieutenant? Give Captain Remsen the details."

"Yes, ma'am. Captain, this is a GPS tracking system. With this, we can keep an eye on where our vehicles are as well as pick up other data from them, direction, speed, idle time, et cetera. But we can also use it to track individuals whose clothing has been tagged with microchip transmitters."

"What?" Tricia asked. "Who would want that?"

Watson raised her eyebrows.

"It's incredibly valuable in tracking the location of high priority individuals," she replied.

Tricia stared.

"Sorry – are you suggesting that I'm a high priority individual? I'm a doctor, Captain, which I understand is valuable, but there are plenty more doctors out there. Are you chipping all the doctors now, in case – what? We wander off into the desert in search of patients? Trust me, I don't need to do that. They come to me more than often enough."

Watson smiled again, folding her arms loosely.

"Not all the doctors, Captain, no. Just you."

"Just me," Tricia echoed flatly.

"You're being put under protective detail."

"What?" Tricia demanded. "Why? What have I done?"

Watson held up her hands quickly, an appeasing expression on her face.

"No," she said, "You haven't done anything. Lieutenant, go round Jensen up before he decides to make a game out of it."

"Yes, ma'am," Arji said with a grin and left them, shutting the door behind him.

"Please tell me what's going on," Tricia said, folding her arms. "I'm not interested in games and I'm not interested in guessing. I'm tired and would really just like to go back to my – _our_ bunk and get some sleep. I have six months left in this tour and this is the last tour I'm ever doing. Six months, Captain. Then I'm going home and I'm getting married. I just want to get through the next half year with the minimum possible fuss that anyone can expect in Afghanistan."

Watson nodded, her smile fading, her expression turning serious.

"Yes, I know. That really is why I'm here. I've been assigned as your protective detail to ensure that you make it back to London alive and in one piece."

"But why? Why me? There are probably hundreds of soldiers going home this autumn – do they all get protective detail to make sure they get back alive? What would be the point of that? We're _soldiers. _You can't have armed guards for the armed guards. And I'm _not_ an important person and I don't know anyone who could arrange this, even if they wanted to. I'm just a doctor from London. Nothing special."

Watson smiled again, briefly but genuinely.

"I'm sure your friends back home would disagree with that," she commented. "Everyone is important to someone else. But you're right – you don't know anyone who could arrange this. But the people you know do know people who can. James and John's boss is my boss' brother."

Tricia frowned, taking a quick moment to let her tired brain sort out that connection.

"And your boss, he's an MI5 bigwig, then?"

"I can't comment on my boss' status," Watson replied.

"Right," Tricia muttered. "Fine. But why would Jamie and John's boss do this? Why would he care?"

"I can't comment on that, either, because I have no idea. I haven't ever met Mister Holmes, Captain. Sherlock Holmes, that is."

"And your boss is…? Surely you can tell me that – I already know he's Sherlock Holmes' brother."

"Mycroft Holmes."

Tricia raised her eyebrows.

"Mycroft and Sherlock? Really? It's a bit – pompous and Victorian, isn't it?"

"Couldn't say, Captain," Watson said in a neutral voice with no hint of expression. Despite herself, Tricia grinned.

"I'm sure you couldn't," she agreed. "What do my boots have to do with all of this?"

"We can fit them with GPS microchips – it's not entirely uncommon actually, although the technology isn't in wide use and it's still expensive enough that it's not cost effective to do this for everyone. Mister Holmes – my boss that is, would very much like to keep track of where you are until you get back to London so that you _do_ get back to London."

"Well. He must have some relationship with his brother to do this kind of favour for a woman he doesn't even know."

Watson hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"Yes…" she agreed. "You could say that. Although perhaps not in the way you mean."

"And what else? What is this Jensen jogging around the camp with?"

"Your new dog tags."

At this, Tricia felt a stab of shock – she was due new tags but hadn't expected Watson to know about it. Well, frankly, she hadn't expected to come off her shift and find Watson as her new bunkmate either. But still. She hadn't widely advertised the need for new ones and it bothered her that a woman who barely knew her was aware she was getting new tags. It meant she probably knew why. Tricia sighed – it really didn't matter. It wasn't that important for her anyway.

The door opened again and Arji came back in with a corporal who presumably was Jensen. Jensen saluted at both captains then turned the new dog tags over to Watson. He left and Watson glanced at Arji.

"They're working perfectly, ma'am," he said. "The route we've recorded here is the one Jensen took around the base. We've got a strong signal from them. Of course, I'll keep an eye on Captain Remsen's location for the next few days to make sure there are no glitches, but we should be fine."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. You can go."

Arji nodded, saluted, and left. Tricia waited until she was certain he was out of earshot before turning back incredulously.

"You mean to tell me there's a GPS chip _in my dog tags_?"

"Yes," Watson said with a smile. "A microchip, very new technology."

"I didn't know that was possible! I thought it had to be – I don't know, bigger?"

"Well, we don't exactly advertise that we have the capabilities," Watson replied. "It's not something we want the Taliban to know. They're generally pretty good at leaving dog tags on, in case hostages turn into bodies. It's conceivable you could be caught without your boots on, but less likely without your tags. Here."

She held them out and Tricia took them with a dazed feeling. They felt slightly heavier and she thought one of them was a bit thicker than it would be otherwise.

"So it's inside the plate?"

"Yes. Don't ask me how. It's not my area. But they tell me it's light enough and slim enough that it would go unnoticed unless you were looking for it – I notice you _were_ looking for it. Anyone else…" she shrugged. "Even someone with above average observation skills shouldn't notice it."

"And if they do?"

"Then we'd have bigger things to worry about," Watson said, her voice clipped and warning.

Tricia weighed the new tags in her hand. That was probably true. She flipped one of the plates over and looked at it – nothing had changed, except the "CE" for Church of England had been replaced by "RC" for Roman Catholic. Neither one particularly mattered to her, but it was important to Jamie. Tricia felt the same about her new religion as she had her old – not much of anything at all. But given that Jamie was willing to stay in London for her, she could make this change that required only some effort.

She pulled her old set from her neck and Watson took them without comment. Tricia put on the new ones and tucked them under her shirt, surprised to find they didn't weigh noticeably more. Well, of course not. A few extra grams was not going to make a difference around her neck.

"If one of these goes home without me, it goes to Jamie," she said flatly.

"Not your father?" Watson asked.

"What good is it to a man who doesn't know who Tricia Remsen is?" Tricia sighed, then raked her hands into her hair.

"Well, I'm here to make sure they go home with you upright and still wearing both of them," Watson said with a smile.

"Wait. Can the transmitter be shut off?" Tricia asked.

"Yes. As soon as you're home, we'll do that. Unless you ask us to keep it on."

"Nooo," Tricia said slowly. "I don't think I will. To be honest, Captain, this is more than a little creepy. I'm accepting it because I don't think I have a choice, not because I really want to."

Watson nodded. She seemed unperturbed by the confession.

"Let's have your boots, we can fit those, too."

With a sigh, Tricia handed over her spare pair of boots and sat down to unlace the ones she was wearing. The new dog tags felt odd against her skin and she wondered if this was only because she knew what was inside of one of the discs. It was unnerving to think that MI5 could track her wherever she went now – around the camp and outside of it. Of course, none of the places she went were particularly interesting. When they flew to Kabul in two days, she wondered if they would be able to watch her flight the same way that commercial airlines showed flight trackers for their passengers. The thought made her repress a shudder.

"Hopefully we'll never have to resort to them," Watson said. "I promise, it's not like someone will be sitting at a computer monitoring where you are all the time."

"Well, I should hope not," Tricia said, looking up. "As I have my own personal body guard."

"Exactly," Watson replied with a smile. "This is only for emergencies. And I'm here to see you avoid those, insofar as it's possible to avoid anything unexpected in Afghanistan."

Tricia made a sound that was half a sarcastic grunt, half a chuckle.

"I'll do my best to make sure your job is as boring as hell," she promised. "Are you posing as a nurse then as a cover assignment?"

"I _am_ a nurse," Watson replied. "And I can do that and do my job watching you."

Tricia sighed again – the prospect of having someone looking over her shoulder for the next six months wasn't the most pleasant of thoughts. She passed her boots over to Watson and leaned back in her seat, shaking her head. Her life had gone from predicable – well, what passed for predictable in a warzone – to very odd in a very short period of time.

She wondered if Jamie and John had any idea what was going on. Had one of them asked for this? If so, how? It didn't seem like the kind of request one made of one's boss. She didn't know much about this Sherlock Holmes, only that he owned some big international real estate firm that was apparently extremely successful. Successful enough that he could afford to employ a doctor and mechanics. She'd looked up his company online and had been unsurprised to find out that they dealt largely in commercial properties. The residential sales they did were so far out of her price range as to be mere fantasy.

_Well, he can't be all bad,_ she mused. _Not if he's responsible for this._

And if it got her home safely, then maybe it didn't matter that she had to put up with Sarah Watson's babysitting for six months. She knew very well how the fragile human body was – she'd seen both Jamie and John nearly lose their lives. And she fully intended to keep herself in one piece and relatively safe until September and then she would bid this whole mess good-bye and not look back.


	42. Chapter 42

**A/N: AGirloftheSouth:** more!

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><p>John had no idea what he was doing – not that this was unusual – but this time, when Sherlock came round to get him, John got the feeling from his boss' expression that he was about to receive An Education. It made him more than a little nervous. He'd never seen quite that triumphant or anticipatory of a gleam in Sherlock's grey eyes before and John hoped he wasn't going to be used as some sort of bargaining chip. He tried to imagine how that would work – God, Sherlock wouldn't use him as an exchange for a hostage, would he? Surely not. John had been instructed to wear one of his new suits, the blue one today. Sherlock wouldn't do anything to damage such an expensive set of clothing.<p>

_Right_, he told himself. _He wouldn't_.

John ignored the niggling worry that churned in his stomach, just like he'd ignored the raised eyebrows and pointed look Jamie had given him when he'd left the flat. Yes, it was Saturday, but it wasn't as if John had much choice. If he said no, Sherlock could do some crime boss-y thing to him.

He might be planning on doing some crime boss-y thing to him anyway. Except he wouldn't use the term 'crime boss-y'. To distract himself from trying to figure out what was about to happen to him, John tried to imagine the term Sherlock _would_ use. Educational. Instructive. Enlightening. Edifying.

"It's not a walk to the gallows, John," Sherlock said, startling John back to the present. He glanced across the car at his boss who was watching him with undisguised amusement. "Although I appreciate that meeting my brother is somewhat similar."

"Your brother?" John asked, shocked. Out of everything he'd considered, that hadn't even been on his list.

"Mm," Sherlock replied with a slight nod.

"Do you mind if I ask why?"

"He has to speak to me. Rather, my sister-in-law does. He sees it fit to accompany her, more to irritate me than for her sake. She is entirely capable of taking care of herself, of course."

"Oh," John said. "I didn't realise your brother was married."

"And why would you?" Sherlock enquired in reply. "I make it a point to speak of my brother as little as possible. And to speak _to_ my brother as little as possible. Although I admit to enjoying Angela's company. She does tend to keep him in line – more or less."

"Ah," John said, for something to say.

"Unfortunately, she spends the majority of her time in Edinburgh."

"Oh. Does he?"

"No, he travels there on the weekends, generally, although occasionally they come to London. David attends school in Edinburgh at Angela's insistence."

"David?"

"Their son."

John blinked – not only did he have to reconcile the image of Sherlock having a sister-in-law whom he actually seemed fond of, but a nephew? He stared at his boss, trying to overlay the image of such domesticity on Sherlock but it didn't work. Well, if Sherlock's brother was anything like him, then maybe it wasn't exactly a normal family situation. John had a particularly strong feeling that this was the case. And from the way Sherlock spoke of his sister-in-law, Angela was probably a unique woman as well.

"Well – what can I do to help with you this?" John asked hesitantly. It wasn't as though he knew the Holmes family at all. Although, evidently, after today he would. At least part of it.

"The usual. Your presence will be satisfactory. It's useful to me to have someone else accompany me when I meet with my brother, particularly if I have to see him often within a short period of time. As I spent last weekend at my parents' home in Buckinghamshire, I was required to spend a substantial amount of time with him."

"So, ah, do you normally bring Gabriel to meet with him then?"

"No, I normally _send_ Gabriel to meet with him," Sherlock said with a faint air of disdain.

_Oh, I see_, John thought. _Payback for Gabriel's medical leave_. He sighed to himself, wondering how someone like Sherlock was so amazingly successful in a very illegal way when he could scarcely stand to be around his own family. Well – maybe that wasn't so surprising. Probably the majority of his clients didn't know him personally. John understood a complicated sibling dynamic. Only Sherlock's was likely to be complicated because of dangerously high levels of intelligence rather than normal things, like addictions and psychological disorders.

He'd faced down the Taliban, he reminded himself. All right, yes, not on his own, but at least Sherlock was likely to be the focus of this meeting. John told himself that if could survive Afghanistan, he could survive a meeting with – Mycroft Holmes, he remembered. And Angela Holmes as well.

"Here we are," Sherlock said brightly when the car pulled into the parking garage of his office building. John wondered if Mycroft and Angela even knew he was coming – probably not, given how delighted Sherlock was. He was probably a surprise.

He sighed inwardly and followed his boss up to his opulent office. Tina was not there so John offered to make tea and Sherlock agreed with a vague wave of his hand. He was tidying up in the way of someone who knew he didn't have much time – by shoving piles of paper together. It looked a little better, but not much.

John wondered suddenly if he'd just been brought along as a babysitter for Sherlock's nephew. He had no idea how old David was – maybe he needed someone to mind him while his parents met with Sherlock. But then again, surely someone as wealthy as one of Holmes brothers could afford a nanny?

He sighed to himself as he finished fixing tea and put the service on a tray. He found some biscuits to go along with it – HobNobs, no surprise there. This _was_ Sherlock's office, after all. He brought it all in and put it on the coffee table and Sherlock nodded a distracted thank-you.

_Doctor, security, hired goon, waiter, possible babysitter. What next?_ John wondered. Sherlock glanced up when he heard movement outside the office and John followed his gaze to the door. He was waved into a seat and sank down, trying not to run his hands nervously down his thighs. Sherlock opened the door rather solicitously and John had a moment to wonder how many doors he opened for himself before a rather attractive woman stepped in, followed by a man close to Sherlock's height but dissimilar in colouring and features.

Unlike his brother, Mycroft Holmes had much lighter hair that was more than beginning to thin on top, although it held some curl like Sherlock's did. He had the same piercing grey eyes, but more of a hawkish air about him, although not suspicious. The phrase "looking down his nose" presented itself and John took the very fitting opportunity to use it in the privacy of his own mind. If he'd thought Sherlock was superior and self-satisfied, it was only because he hadn't met Mycroft. The older man's gaze turned to rake over John, carrying away far more information than John wanted him to know. In the space of a second, John felt like he'd been evaluated and fully understood.

_They should teach classes in it_, he thought. _They'd make a fortune. A second fortune._

Angela was tall for a woman, taller than John. It was disconcerting to realise he was the shortest person in the room, but maybe if he stayed sitting down, it wouldn't be so apparent. She had hazel eyes and long, curly medium brown hair with hints of auburn that was swept off her face and pinned back elegantly. She was an extremely attractive woman in the way of one who had self-confidence to spare. She carried herself with an easy self-assurance that somehow managed to avoid being casual – if she wasn't from an upper class background as well, John would eat his hat. Well, first he'd buy one then he'd eat it. She smiled at him in a charmingly disarming way and John remembered his manners in time to rise. No sense worrying about his height – neither Mycroft nor Angela Holmes would have missed it anyway.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Mycroft," he replied. John heard all sorts of undercurrents in there and actually caught Angela rolling her eyes with an amused expression on her face. John was certainly only he'd seen that, since her back was to her husband and brother-in-law, and they were locked in some haughty staring competition.

"Sherlock, who is your dashing new associate?" Angela asked, turning back gracefully, a small smile on her lips. At this, Sherlock pulled his gaze from his brother's and smiled at his sister-in-law. John tried not to blush at being called "dashing" by such a frankly astonishing woman. He knew she was probably just being polite and trying to break up the sibling rivalry.

"Angela," Sherlock said warmly and stepped toward her to give her a peck on each cheek in the French style. She returned these, smiling at him. "This is Doctor John Watson. John, my brother, Mycroft Holmes, and my sister-in-law, Angela MacTaggart."

John mentally corrected her last name to himself and smiled, shaking Angela's hand first. She had a firm handshake, which didn't surprise him at all – a woman like her would. But he was used to that from the army, or at least the sort of women he'd met in the army when he had the opportunity to shake hands rather than salute.

"Ah, the inestimable Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, shaking his hand as well. John was flustered for a moment.

"I don't know about that," he admitted.

"Nonsense. My brother thinks quite highly of you."

John didn't know what to say to that, but Sherlock saved him by waving a dismissive hand.

"A little courtesy, Mycroft, please. Doctor Watson is a respected physician. And, I should point out, has only just met you. Do give him some time to adjust to your particularly enigmatic personality."

"You surprise me, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "After a month of being in your employ, I'd have thought Doctor Watson would be quite accustomed to enigmatic personalities."

"Mine, yes," Sherlock agreed. "Yours, no. It's quite a different game with you, Mycroft."

"I hardly see this as a game."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft, you see everything as a game. Or as a strategy, perhaps. Those two concepts often overlap."

"And yet, not always," his brother replied. John was starting to see why Sherlock normally sent Gabriel to deal with Mycroft. If this was normal for them, it was a wonder they could get anything done at all. John had the impression that conversations between them usually took the form of a very intricate game of chess. Or like a boxing match without any actual physical contact.

"He's quite a good boss, actually," John said in Sherlock's defence. He saw surprise flit across Mycroft's face and – astonishingly – triumph on Sherlock's. Had he just scored some sort of verbal point? Angela's lips tugged upward into a smile.

"Quite right," Sherlock agreed. "Now, Mycroft, can I interrupt your attempts to deteriorate the morale among my employees long enough to offer my congratulations to you and Angela?"

John frowned, wondering what that was about, but Mycroft sighed, looking mildly affronted. Angela looked momentarily surprised, but not much.

"Really, Sherlock, you can't wait until we make the announcement?" his brother asked with a weary sigh.

"Why should you wait? It's perfectly obvious now."

"To you, yes," Mycroft replied. "Judging by Doctor Watson's reaction, he hadn't deduced it. And he _is_ a doctor."

"Yes, a trauma surgeon, Mycroft. You're well aware of that. Nevertheless, Angela, my congratulations to you."

"Thank you, Sherlock," Angela conceded graciously.

"She's expecting," Sherlock clarified for John. John tried to hold back on a visible start but didn't succeed – it didn't matter with this crowd anyway. They'd have caught it if he'd so much as blinked. But Angela didn't look pregnant, so she must be very early in her first trimester.

"Yes, I imagine about three or four weeks," Sherlock said to John, doing that probable mind reading thing. Angela nodded. "Look at her, John, really look at her. She appears more tired than a woman her age and in her physical condition would at this time of day – possibly she didn't sleep well last night, but she has faint circles under her eyes that she's quite expertly hidden with makeup. Fatigue is an early symptom of pregnancy – of course, fatigue is a symptom of many things, which you know, being a doctor. However, she is also keeping herself quite straight, her shoulders down and back, which – aside from being proper posture – keeps her arms from inadvertently brushing her chest. Her breasts are therefore clearly tender and they are swollen, which is an excellent indication. Couple that with the fact that she has been avoiding looking at the tea that you so conscientiously prepared suggests she's experiencing some morning sickness. These factors could indicate a number of different conditions, but the most likely explanation, particularly since she is a visibly healthy woman, is pregnancy."

John tried not to choke.

"Really, Sherlock, I'd prefer that you not stare my wife's chest," Mycroft commented dryly and John tried to suppress a coughing fit. All of that had been rattled off with clinical precision the likes of which John hadn't heard since he'd been in medical school. And that was supposed to be done _without_ a patient in the room.

"Oh, I'm not concerned about Sherlock," Angela commented. "Although, Doctor Watson, perhaps you should breathe. Sherlock, I understand your views, but I suspect Doctor Watson is something of a gentleman for all that he was raised in the middle classes. You may feel free to stare as much as you please – I don't think anyone could stop you if they tried – but your doctor seems to have some understanding of etiquette when it comes to interacting with women."

"Such as looking at their faces," Mycroft added with feigned helpfulness.

To John's astonishment, Sherlock waved a hand.

"It's hardly a matter of objectification," Sherlock commented. "Women are not really my area."

"Nonetheless, it's considered impolite," Mycroft said and John really, really hoped that the impatient look Sherlock was busy shooting his brother prevented him from noticing the doctor's shock.

He'd been _right_.

He'd been wrong about Sherlock's relationship with Gabriel, but he'd been right about Sherlock. John inhaled a deep breath silently and slowly and saw Angela's gaze flicker to him, containing a hint of amusement and sympathy. He really hoped that was based only on the fact that being in the same room with the three of them was a bit like waiting for a bomb to go off.

"Well, despite your assertions about my appetite, I would very much like some tea," Angela commented, moving toward the coffee table, and John set to work making her a cup, grateful for the distraction. "Then if you don't mind, Sherlock, I do have some information regarding James Moriarty for you."


	43. Chapter 43

**A/N: mustangwoman**, just to round out your Friday ;)

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><p>After he was dismissed for the day, John went for a very long walk. Somehow, the prospect of going home and seeing Jamie was too much to face. Jamie had no idea John was bisexual – at least, John had never told him because it had never seemed relevant. Tricia knew, but John didn't think she'd tell anyone because he'd asked her not to. And if he told Jamie now, he'd tell his friend everything, which meant being on the receiving end of one of those silent pointed looks that John <em>knew<em> Jamie had learned from Tricia. It was like having both of them evaluating him at once.

He wasn't sure he could stand the indignity.

Plus, Sherlock was still his boss. There really was that to consider. The man paid his salary. John was not really keen on being a very high priced male escort. And he owed Sherlock ten thousand pounds – well, technically Harry did, but John was paying it.

And Sherlock was a criminal.

_So, all around a bad choice_, John thought, walking with his hands tucked into his pockets. He passed a pub that looked warm and cheery, not too crowded, the light inside a deep gold. He doubled back for a pint, then caught cab and went to Harry's.

It felt strange turning to her, but she'd been doing fantastically well with her AA – he knew she was working hard and struggling but she was also succeeding. She was up front with him when she was having a difficult time or a particularly bad day and he'd stayed overnight a couple of times with her for moral support. He also knew she was squirreling away money to repay him – he wasn't supposed to know that, but it wasn't difficult to figure out, given her normal spending habits. And since she was spending nothing on alcohol, she'd have more to save. She'd also received her promotion at work, along with a pay raise.

"John!" she exclaimed when she answered her door. She pulled him into a loose hug and planted a kiss on his cheek, which he returned lightly. She looked tired, he noted, and a bit sad.

"Harry. Everything all right?"

She gestured for him to come in and John did so, shedding his coat and suit jacket as she locked the door again behind him. He hung them both up and then rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt up past his elbows. He had no desire to ruin his clothes – he was well aware that he was pretty much wearing the cost Harry's debt.

"Yeah – well, mostly. I was just going over some of the documents Clara's lawyer sent over. It's all really straightforward, since we don't have kids and our assets are split fairly evenly, but still… it's just sad. Makes it feel real. Y'know?"

"I'm sorry, Harry," John said, pulling her into another hug. She wound her arms around him and held him a bit tighter this time.

"It's all right. It's just – it makes me want to drink. So I'm glad you're here."

"I'll make tea," John said.

Harry gave a quiet chuckle, shaking her head.

"The solution to all of life's problems."

"There are certainly worse solutions."

"Believe me, John, I know." She gave him a sad smile and John kissed her cheek again before heading into the kitchen of her small flat. He wondered if she would move now that she'd been promoted and asked her as much.

"When my lease is up, yes," she replied. "I want to live somewhere that I've been sober in the whole time. Does that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense," John replied, pulling down two mugs. "Where's your sugar?"

"Oh, check the cupboard on your right. I haven't refilled the pot. There should be a bag on the bottom shelf."

John found it and refilled her sugar pot while he was at it, then served her tea. It was far less ostentatious of a tea service he'd been using that morning, but Harry's company was a lot less complicated than the Holmes', even with her recovery.

He settled onto her couch and Harry curled into her favourite chair, an old dusty-green armchair with big cosy cushions.

"What brings you by?" she asked.

"Nothing, really," John said, then raised his eyebrows when she snorted at him.

"Oh, come on, John," Harry said with a smile. "You're a terrible liar."

"I am not!" John protested.

"Yes, you really are," she replied with a smile over the rim of her mug. John shot her a look, then sighed. He really didn't want to talk about work – in fact, they avoided the subject of his job by unspoken agreement. It was easier that way and John was uncomfortably aware that they had a history of avoiding difficult subjects.

"Why am I not allowed to want to see my sister?" he asked.

Harry sighed, arching an eyebrow.

"Well, we spent the better part of our adulthoods avoiding one another. I think we talked more when you were in Afghanistan than we ever did when we were both living in the same country."

John sipped his tea to avoid having to answer for a few moments, then nodded.

"True," he agreed. He shifted so he was sitting cross-legged, leaning against the back of the couch, relaxing into the cushions. "That doesn't mean we have to keep that up. Especially since I'm never going overseas again."

"I know," Harry replied. "But you don't really have the look of someone who just stopped by for a tea and a chat."

John shrugged lightly. It wasn't as though he could say "I'm infatuated with my boss and incidentally he's planning on bringing down a very dangerous, psychopathic criminal competitor of his and I probably know a lot more about that than is safe for me to know." He was pretty sure that wouldn't go over well. It didn't especially go over well in his own mind when he thought of it that bluntly.

"Do you remember Danny?" he asked, then felt a flash of shock – he hadn't intended to ask that at all and he wished he could retract the question.

"Do I remember Danny?" Harry spat. "John, I know we weren't close, but I do I remember the man who – wait, oh my God, you didn't see him, did you?"

"What?" John asked. "No, no! Anyway, I doubt I'd recognise him even if I did. It's been fifteen years."

Harry let out a deep sigh.

"Well thank God for that. Do you maybe want to warn me before you try and give me a heart attack? What's got you thinking about Danny 'I'm-a-sodding-bastard' Hughes?"

John shrugged – he hadn't been, not really. Or at least not consciously. Not in the way Harry meant, anyway. He rarely thought of Danny anymore. The memory would give him the occasional flash of anger and resentment, but those were old and didn't hold much heat. It had been a decade and a half, after all.

"I don't know," John lied. He sipped his tea again, feeling the curl of steam against his face. "I used to think of all the things I wanted when I came back from this tour – you know, settling down, having a family, all those normal things. Not really a house in the suburbs, but maybe a good sized flat farther from the city centre, big enough to have a couple of kids. Meet a nice woman, have a normal life. Not have people shooting at me all the time. Not having to patch up young men who've been blown to bits by IEDs. Now…" he shrugged. "I don't know what I want. That whole idea – seems a bit wrong somehow."

Harry shifted so that her bare feet were resting on the floor and leaned forward somewhat.

"John, have you met someone? A man?"

John rolled his eyes.

"No," he lied again.

"Oh, Lord, it's not your flatmate, is it?"

John stared at her, then burst out laughing.

"What?" Harry demanded. John curled forward, snickering, shaking his head.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just, Harry – Jamie? Really? I mean, really? It'd be like dating you. That's a bit – thank you for that mental image I hadn't ever considered and now really wish I didn't have."

Harry grinned.

"That's good, I was going to say, I'm pretty sure he's firmly on the other side of the fence."

John snorted.

"No kidding."

"All right, who is it?"

"It isn't anyone!" John sighed. She raised her eyebrows at him and John rolled his eyes. Evidently, he wasn't as horrible of a liar as she accused him of being, because she smirked but then relaxed and nodded.

"I've just been thinking about things, that's all," John said.

Harry drew her legs back up and settled fully into her chair again.

"Well, you know my opinion of the decision you made, John. I understand why you did it, but I think you're closing yourself off from a lot of possibilities."

John nodded – he knew what she thought about that. Like many bisexual people, he had a stronger preference for the opposite sex, so functionally writing off men hadn't been that difficult anyway. And he'd become so used to it over the last fifteen years that he scarcely noticed it anymore – or he hadn't, until Sherlock had strode into his life in a fancy suit, all pale angles and dark curls and danger and intrigue.

_Damn,_ he thought, sipping his tea.

He hadn't actively pursued any real relationships when he'd been stationed overseas because it seemed unfair to do that to someone here when he could have died at any moment. And it was difficult to do over there, too, for the same reason. Only there, the chances were twice as high. He had no idea how Jamie and Tricia dealt with it – he suspected largely by not doing much at all except sorting out the practicalities. They were both aware of what could happen. John had never been able to convince himself that it was all right to expect a civilian woman to wait for him to come home. It was a lot of ask of someone. He knew it worked for a lot of people, but he'd never felt it would have worked for him. So he hadn't bothered.

But now there was no chance of going back. He'd intended this as his last tour anyway, but the decision had been made for him when the bullet had torn through his shoulder. And here he was, thirty-eight, no real ties, a sister he was just learning to get on with, a mother he saw every other week or so.

And a gorgeous boss that made him want to throw caution to the wind and forget all the choices he'd made for himself about his life and all the things he thought he'd wanted.

"Well, maybe the two-point-five kids and the dog and the flat that isn't a house with a white picket fence aren't for you," Harry said. John looked up and snorted softly. "I mean, that probably sounds good when you're out there, sure. But a lot of things probably sound good when you're out there that don't hold as much appeal when you get back. I don't know, but I'm guessing not. Plus, John – you became a trauma surgeon and joined the army and did two tours in Afghanistan. You never really struck me as the 'I want to have a boring life' type of person."

John raised his eyebrows at this and Harry shook her head. John's lips twitched upwards.

"Good point," he conceded.

Harry tilted her head to one side, regarding him with an amused expression.

"Maybe I can see you with a dog," she said. "But I honestly never thought you really wanted kids. Not that you wouldn't be a brilliant dad – because you would, John – but you just never seemed that fussed about it."

"Well, given my role model…" John said. Harry grinned.

"True," she agreed. "But still."

John nodded slightly. He'd always thought he'd have children, in a sort of vague "someday" way that mostly involved meeting and marrying a woman who wanted children. It was shocking to realise he didn't really feel that way anymore.

He couldn't imagine Sherlock with a child. The thought was a bit frightening.

"What about you?" he asked, changing the subject slightly.

"Well, I'd like to," Harry admitted. "But a recovering alcoholic who's going through a divorce, not _exactly_ the best time of my life."

John gave a small smile.

"For what it's worth, I think you'd be a good mum."

Harry looked surprised.

"Sober, maybe," she said. "But I don't know. Sober or not, being a recovering alcoholic is still a lot of baggage. Who knows how I'd mess up a kid?"

John thought of Mycroft Holmes and Angela MacTaggart and wondered how their children would turn out.

"Plenty of people do worse to their kids, Harry."

"Well, maybe one day. Definitely not right now," his sister sighed. She finished her tea and set it aside, looking sad.

"Do you want me to stay tonight?" John asked. Harry hesitated, tugging her lower lip between her teeth. "Tell you what," John said before she could answer. "You come to my place. It would do you good to get out of your flat for a bit. We'll go out and get dinner, just the two of us. Then watch some crappy telly."

Harry thought about that for a moment, then smiled.

"Jamie won't mind?"

"No, he likes you," John replied. Harry arched her eyebrows. "He does, don't worry. You'd know if he didn't. He's not shy about his opinions."

"John, he can't talk."

"Yeah, but trust me," John replied with a grin to which Harry rolled her eyes.

"All right, that sounds good," she admitted. "I could use a break from thinking about how I screwed things up with Clara and how bloody good a drink or ten would be. Let me grab some things." She pushed herself to her feet and padded toward her bedroom, then turned back to face him. John glanced over his shoulder at her curiously.

"I know what Danny did, John. But don't let some arsehole from fifteen years ago dictate how you live your life. Don't let him decide for you who you should be with. You know, you have a lot more options than most people do – I'm not going to tell you what to do because Lord knows I'm not exactly a shining example of getting things right. But don't sell yourself short. If you meet someone you like, regardless of who she or he is, don't deny yourself because of something that happened when you were twenty-three. That isn't fair to you. He's gone and good riddance. Just – don't let him keep making this choice if it isn't what _you_ really want for yourself, okay? Think about it."

John held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.

"I will," he said, wondering if he meant it. Harry studied him for a moment, then smiled a bare smile, nodding once.

"All right," she replied. "You're my big brother, John. I just want you to be happy."

At this, John gave her a real smile.

"And you're my little sister, Harry. I want the same for you."

Harry nodded.

"I'm working on it," she promised him. "Give me about ten minutes to get ready."

"I'll clean up our tea," John replied.

"Thanks," she said and disappeared into the bedroom to pack an overnight bag.


	44. Chapter 44

"Another week."

"What? No!"

John sighed, glancing up at Sherlock.

"Why?" his boss demanded, gesturing with an open hand at Gabriel. "You said three weeks! It's been three weeks!"

John nodded, glancing at his patient who was sitting on his bed, looking annoyed. But Gabriel hadn't protested John's edict, at least not verbally. If anything, he looked torn between wanting another week and chafing under the prospect. John thought that alone was a fairly good indication that his decision was justified.

Gabriel looked less tired than he had, almost enough for John to feel comfortable for him going back to work – although he admitted he was not keen on the idea of Gabriel's work, really.

_It's not like the world needs another intelligent criminal who just happens to be part of a large organisation,_ he thought. He wondered darkly what Gabriel would do when he went back to work. Rob a bank? Steal some priceless work of art? A little light smuggling just to get back into the swing of things?

John sighed to himself. The younger man was looking better, but the fact remained that he was injured and had suffered some emotional shocks as well. John was aware by now that Gabriel's brother was formally considered a missing person and his disappearance was being investigated by the police. He wondered what it was like to know that Richard was dead, to be the reason Richard had died, and not to say anything about it. To just let his family go on wondering where their son and brother was, hoping endlessly that Richard might just come home, walk back into their lives as if nothing had happened.

The thought made John angry, then he remembered what had happened to cause Richard's death and it tempered his reaction somewhat. Before he'd gone overseas, when he'd been doing a rotation at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham – the same hospital in which he'd later be a patient – he'd had one or two patients who had been shot by their partners. It was usually men shot by women. Battered person's syndrome, it was called. It was appalling but John thought maybe he understood. At some point, enough was simply enough. He'd seen his share of people snap under too much emotional pressure – both here and overseas. It took all forms. But there was generally only so far someone could be pushed.

He wondered if he could push Sherlock for another week.

"I said three weeks and then I'd re-evaluate. This is me re-evaluating."

"But he's been resting! Haven't you?" Sherlock snapped at Gabriel, eyes narrowed somewhat, looking for all the world like an angry parent. Gabriel sighed and rolled his own eyes, nodding.

"Yes, I've been doing everything John's told me to," he replied. "You know that. You'd have caught it the second I started deviating."

Sherlock huffed, folding his arms and turning his glare to John, as if using Gabriel's words to underscore his point.

"That doesn't change my decision," John said. "He was shot, Sherlock. He needs another week off. The swelling from walking on it is gone, and I'm happy about that, but I'd like to err on the side of caution and make sure he's recovering properly."

"But surely he's recovering well right now?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes," John sighed. "But he still needs more time."

"Can't you do," Sherlock waved his hands as it to try and articulate some indefinable thought, "something?"

"I _am_ doing something," John said. "I'm giving him another week off of work. I can't just wave my hands over his leg and mutter some words and have it be magically healed. This takes time. I know you don't like that. It doesn't matter what you like. Standing there glowering at me or Gabriel isn't going to make his body heal itself any faster. In fact, if you cause him stress, it will take longer."

Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation and rolled his eyes. Gabriel's lips actually twitched into a smile, the first John had seen that day. He was glad to see it – he'd pressed the younger man privately the previous week and had learned, much to his surprise, that Sherlock's firm had two psychologists on staff. One of whom Gabriel was seeing in the wake of his shooting, at Sherlock's insistence. Gabriel had been displeased to admit that to John, who had told him curtly that knowing these things helped him properly treat his patients.

He understood the hesitation – there remained a negative view of mental health treatments, an idea that seeking them was either unnecessary or admitting to some inherent weakness. John was guilty of having felt that way himself, even after being shot and starting therapy. He knew the benefits, both as a doctor and as a patient. He also knew it was unpleasant and admitting to it could be uncomfortable.

But he was glad Gabriel was going. John suspected that the memories of the shooting would not be unduly distressing, if only because Gabriel didn't remember that much. He may recall more as time went on, but John found it doubtful, and he'd wasn't likely to remember much about the actual incident itself. The brain did have good instincts for self-preservation. Without care, though, these could go too far. And he did worry about flashbacks to the assault when Gabriel had been eighteen, particularly after Richard had abducted him. That was a far more pressing concern for John and he hoped the younger man had the sense to be up front about that. He had mentioned it but had not forced the issue. When John had briefly explained the difference between flashbacks and memories, he'd seen no confusion on Gabriel's face. It was very likely the younger man already knew the distinction.

Hopefully he could avoid any flashbacks at all and as many unpleasant memories as possible.

John thought he shouldn't have been so surprised that Sherlock's organisation had its own psychologists. Probably being a successful criminal involved the same sort of stresses and risks as being a police officer, only as seen from the other side. In the same way that John had been required to go into treatment following his injury, he knew that police officers who were wounded on the job had to do so.

_So why not organised criminals?_ he asked himself. He wondered when he was going to stop thinking his life was strange only to have more strangeness introduced on a daily basis. At what point did this all become normal? He glanced back down at Gabriel. Did one have to start at seventeen to think it was normal? Or twelve?

"One more week," John said firmly.

"And then you will re-evaluate again?" Sherlock snapped.

"Yes," John replied. "You could keep arguing with me about this, and you could probably order Gabriel back to work, but I'm not sure why you'd bother hiring a doctor if you don't want to listen to me. Gabriel, if you want to get better, you need another week. Sherlock, if you want Gabriel to get better, he needs another week. Based on his progress, I think that should be enough."

John wondered if Sherlock was going to complain that he'd said that three weeks ago but Sherlock held his silence. That was probably for the best – since John had definitely not said that. And Sherlock most likely remembered that. He was too eerily smart not to.

"Fine," his boss conceded with bad grace.

John knew he'd just bought himself another week of being Sherlock's hired goon and general sidekick. Somehow, the idea was not as unpleasant as it had once been. John repressed a snort. Not really "somehow". The idea appealed to him in a very specific way. He'd resorted to a few cold showers over the last couple of days. The idea of wanting to shag another man again after so long was at once both enticing and disturbing. The low level of discomfort at least kept the fantasies from being too overwhelming. He still needed to sleep. _And_ he still shared a flat with Jamie, for about another week to week and a half. He had no desire to explain any of this to his old friend. Jamie was too good at sniggering without making a sound.

"Good," John sighed. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, removed Gabriel's bandage and checked his healing wound. John was pleased with how well it was doing – the bruising was largely faded to green and gone altogether in some places, and the incision was closed and probably itchy as hell. He re-bandaged it then shooed Sherlock out of the room. John disposed of his gloves and stood, folding his arms.

"Can you do another week without trying to dodge my orders?" he asked.

"Yes," Gabriel replied. "Sandra's on days off again."

John grinned.

"Well done. I think you'll be fine after another week, I really do."

"Good. When can I start walking on it again?"

"Ha. Slow down, not for at least another three weeks. At least."

Gabriel sighed.

"Yes, I know," John commiserated. "And because I know, I'm not letting you off lightly. You're twenty-five. You don't want this to be giving you grief the rest of your life. Put the time in now and you won't have to deal with it for decades."

"All right," Gabriel conceded.

John collected his equipment, stowing it back in his bag.

"I'll come by in two days and check up on you again." Gabriel nodded; this had become their standard routine. "In the meantime, if the weather lets up a bit, I'd suggest trying to get out and about now. It's hard to go far on crutches but give it a go, get one of the cars to take you down to Regent's Park or wherever you'd like to go. But if it snows or if the rain keeps up too much, take it easy. You don't want to end up with the other leg broken."

Gabriel snorted.

"You're right about that," he agreed. "All right, I'll be careful."

"Good. See you in a couple of days. Take care of yourself."

"I have been."

John smiled and let himself out of Gabriel's bedroom, unsurprised to find Sherlock waiting for him in the living room – he didn't seem inclined to take a hint about leaving. John knew Sherlock liked to be in control of things, which probably helped when one was running a large and successful criminal organisation, but he should learn to relax a little.

John wondered if Sherlock ever went for massages.

Then he deliberately put that out of his mind.

"Anything else you need from me?" John asked. Sherlock was watching him with folded arms and a cool expression on his face, his grey eyes narrowed and intent on the doctor. John kept his own expression as neutral as possible and refused to let himself imagine those eyes evaluating him for any unprofessional reasons.

"It's only a week," John sighed.

"Yes," Sherlock replied in a clipped voice. "Happily for me, you will still be available to assist me should I need it."

John raised his eyebrows and tried not to look too pleased – successfully he hoped. With Sherlock, it was impossible to tell. He never gave anything up, not unless he wanted to. John was well aware that he gave hints away all the time and couldn't help it. He was probably defenceless against someone as intelligent and as skilled at reading people as Sherlock.

"Is that all?" John repeated.

Sherlock hesitated, looking for a moment like he was going to say something, then gave a short nod. John shifted his bag to his left hand and nodded in return.

"You will be ready at eight tomorrow morning," Sherlock ordered.

"All right," John replied. He could take orders with aplomb, even if Sherlock couldn't. He'd had the training for it, of course. Sherlock had probably never even considered adjusting to the idea of not getting what he wanted. He had the look of a man who knew he was being inconvenienced, but out of necessity, not spite.

_He wants to complain,_ John thought. The realisation almost made him smile but years of military training let him keep his features relaxed. It was never good to let the brass know you were laughing at them on the inside.

"Good night, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock gave another curt nod.

"Good night, John," he replied.

John let himself out of the flat and had just made it to the lifts when he heard the door to Gabriel's flat open again. He paused and looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock standing in the corridor, resplendent in his perfectly fitted black suit and purple silk shirt. Both colours contrasted sharply with his pale skin, but the muted gold lighting in the corridor gave him a warmer appearance. It also picked up faint reddish hints in his hair that suddenly made him look like a stark distinction between light and dark.

John remembered to breathe and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Did you have to learn to parachute?"

"What?" John asked.

"When you were in the army. Was it part of your training?"

John tried to mentally switch gears – he should be used to this by now, he told himself.

"Yes, it was," John replied. "Why?"

"Did you enjoy it?"

John sighed to himself and turned fully back to face Sherlock. He wondered what had brought this on. Why did the man even care? He ignored the tiny part of his brain that insisted Sherlock was showing interest in him.

_Boss!_ he reminded himself.

"No, I hated it," John answered. "Every single second of it."

At this, Sherlock's features pinched into a slight frown and a brief gleam of surprise flashed through his grey eyes.

"You joined the army and yet you're afraid of skydiving?"

"I'm not keen on heights," John replied, a little more edge in his voice than he wanted. He schooled himself back to patience – Sherlock _probably_ wasn't trying to be snarky. He probably really was curious as to how someone who'd gone to war was afraid of something like jumping out of an aeroplane when there were more immediate dangers, like being shot or blown up.

"Ah," Sherlock said.

"You know, I think you're the only person in existence who's ever found it boring. Some of the men – and women – I trained with, they loved it. Couldn't get enough of it. Some us hated it. I understand why we have to know how to do it, but if I never do it again, it will be too soon. Offloading from a helicopter by rope, no problem. But they get you as close to the ground as they can. Forcing yourself to jump from a plane that you know isn't going to crash? Maybe if it were actually crashing, that would be different. But getting yourself to believe that your parachute will work and you won't plunge to your bloody, messy, smear-on-the-ground death is hard."

"You worried your chute wouldn't open?" Sherlock asked in a tone that told John he'd never even seriously considered the possibility.

"Yes. Normal people do." He paused, regarding his boss. "There must be something you're afraid of that you can't convince yourself not to be."

Sherlock gave him a curious look and tilted his head fractionally. He was silent for a moment, as if thinking about this.

"I suppose there could be," he conceded after a minute. "Although I have yet to discover it."

John sighed. Of course.

"Well, _most_ people do have those kind of fears. Logic and reason are all well and good, but instinct is sometimes more powerful."

"Did you ever know anyone who died while skydiving?"

"No," John admitted. "Some injuries from bad landings, but no deaths."

"Then all evidence in your experience indicates that the probability of fatality is low."

"It _is_ low," John said. "And knowing that doesn't help when you're – when _I'm_ four thousand feet above the ground."

Sherlock regarded him almost curiously.

"Then it is simply a matter of training your mind to accept the inherent risks but not to let them outweigh the favourable odds of completing the exercise successfully."

"No, it's _not_," John countered. "Because I'm never going to do it again."

_Why are we even having this conversation?_ he wondered. _Why does he even care? There'd better be no jumping tomorrow. Although he finds it boring, so that's a good sign for me._

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John just sighed, exhaling slowly.

"Good night, Sherlock," he said for the second time that evening.

"Yes, good night, John," Sherlock replied. John hit the button for the lift and felt an odd mixture of relief and disappointment when the door to Gabriel's flat closed again. John hoped that Sherlock wasn't haranguing his young business partner about being so accepting of another week's leave, but if he was, there was nothing the doctor could do about it. Gabriel had known Sherlock eight years. Presumably he could take care of himself around the madman by now.

John stepped into the lift and leaned against the back wall, raking his right hand through his hair. He was going home, he decided, then he and Jamie were going out to a pub for a pint. Several pints. Then, when his flatmate was asleep for the night, John was going to take the longest, coldest shower in human history.


	45. Chapter 45

**A/N:** You can assume this entire conversation actually takes place in French. The DGSE is the General Directorate for External Security (external military intelligence agency) and the DCRI is the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence.

If you're interested in what Charles and Veronique look like: http:/www. /wp-content/ uploads/2011/02/gaspard-ulliel. jpg (for Charles, only slightly older) and http:/ .com/ media/ rm3651436800/ nm0890055 for Veronique (only with straight hair). Indira Varma is one of my favourite actors, so I was happy to be able to use her for a character.

Thanks to **Crimson Forrest** for help with the financial/banking info. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Veronique had Charles Chauvière escorted up by a junior agent but rose to greet him when he was shown into her office. He had cleared all the security checks easily. She'd ensured that he had.<p>

He was taller in person than she'd expected, standing about 185 centimetres. Veronique had known his height from the information she had on him, of course, and she was an accurate judge of height when observing someone, but less so when reading it from a file. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black wool-and-silk blend suit accented with a pale pink silk shirt and a striped pink-and-burgundy tie. He wore no jewellery apart from a watch on his left wrist. His shoes were leather, polished and spotless, not brand new, but just old enough that they were comfortable to wear without showing any signs of age. He was dark – dark haired, dark eyed, like her. His eyes were a rich chocolate brown, bright and sharp, and Veronique did not miss the way he took in the layout of her office and all the details in a brief flicker.

Someone had trained him to do that. She knew this, because someone had trained her to do the same.

_DGSE? DCRI?_ she wondered. But no, she probably would have been alerted somewhere in the course of her investigations concerning him if he'd belonged to another agency. If he were also Interpol, there would be no need for this secrecy. If he were something foreign, like MI6 or CIA, she would have been flagged. Veronique had her means of knowing when she'd been noticed by other organisations.

So someone else had done the training.

She felt no need to re-evaluate her original assessment that M. Chauvière was part of large criminal organisation. Interpol had very little information on the company for which he worked – the basics only, really. She'd checked with some contacts in England and with Europol and they did not have much either. In the normal course of events, this might confirm for her that nothing of interest was going on. But when presented with M. Chauvière, it was impossible to believe that no information meant no activity. He simply _looked_ like he was doing something illegal. He could probably break the law by sitting quietly by himself in an empty room.

Certainly the smile he was giving her had to be an arrestable offense. If she had been less observant, she would have accepted all the promises offered in that smile, all the suggestion, all the innuendo. If she were susceptible to this sort of thing, she would have imagined that smile telling her everything he wanted to do to her.

Except that she was not male.

And if M. Chauvière had any interest in women at all, Veronique St. Jean would admit she had no deductive skills whatsoever and resign her post. She felt a brief stab of disappointment – no chance of finding him and marrying him based on his exquisite taste in cologne. She noted he was wearing it now, the same scent he'd put on the card he'd posted to her in February. It suited him perfectly, but of course it did. He wouldn't wear it if it didn't. She wondered briefly if he'd purchased it after doing research on her and finding out who her family was. Then she dismissed it as irrelevant.

She would have to ensure Dominique never laid eyes on Chauvière. The man in front of her was sophisticated, well-educated, gorgeous, and obviously arrogant. Right up her twin brother's alley. Dominique loved proud, pretty men. He went through them like a child went through sweets.

_On second thought, perhaps I should introduce them. And then hide behind something very strong very far away._

The thought made her smile as she shook his hand in greeting and she let him see the smile as warm and welcoming.

"M. Chauvière," she said, gesturing smoothly at one of the two black leather chairs that faced her desk. "A pleasure. Please, sit. Coffee?"

"Agent St. Jean," he replied. "_Enchanté._ Coffee would be welcome. I take it black with two sugars."

_I'm sure you do_, Veronique thought to herself. _Dark and sweet._ _No surprise_.

She poured him a cup from the pot she had ground and brewed not ten minutes ago, in anticipation of his arrival. He had been promptly on time, of course. He was not the kind of man to be late and leave her wondering. He'd left her wondering for three weeks. He liked his games to be more subtle and drawn out.

She sat down behind her desk and set aside some files on which she had spent the morning working. Chauvière inhaled the coffee's aroma before sipping it and Veronique kept her expression neutral, fighting the urge to twitch an eyebrow upward. She did that, too. She'd always approved of people who smelled something new before tasting it. The human sense of smell was far inferior to sight but still provided an extraordinary amount of detail about food and drink about which most people were ignorant. He looked pleased at the coffee, but Veronique never drank anything that wasn't the highest quality.

He sat with right leg crossed over his left at the knee and settled his leather briefcase on the floor beside his chair. Every movement was smooth and assured – he came from old money. She knew the signs, having been raised in it herself. And he took good care of himself. This was a man who really enjoyed the finer things in life, one of them being his own body. She had seen any number of indulgent people give way to softness and laziness, but Chauvière struck her as the type to despise that. He took pride in the way he looked and he clearly used it to his advantage. Veronique had no problem with that – she did the same. There was no shame in it. One used the tools one had. If one's body was a good tool, then all the better. It was always on hand, after all.

He had vices, of course – a man like him would. She could scarcely see him dedicating his weekends to reading to disadvantaged children or the like. He was a smoker, that much was obvious from the faint stains on his right index and middle fingers, but he clearly kept himself well groomed, had his teeth cleaned and probably whitened on a regular basis. She suspected that was his only real drug. Nothing hard, not even on a recreational basis. He wouldn't like the lack of control, nor would he like the possibility of injury or illness that could result. He did not smell of cigarette smoke, though, so he'd gone to some pains to ensure that his cologne was all she picked up on.

Aside from the scent of his shampoo and soap, of course, but those were fading and secondary. Her trained nose had picked up on those where someone else might not, so he had not considered these details important.

Veronique interlaced her fingers and leaned forward slightly, noting that he noted the lack of a wedding band on her left ring finger. A small smile crept across his lips and into his eyes, making the dark brown of the irises warmer and more dangerous. Her instincts told her that he was not a man to be taken lightly. He was not violent, but she was certain he could arrange unpleasantness if need be.

Well, nor was she someone to be crossed. And if he hadn't figured out that she knew he was gay, then she was giving him far more credit than he deserved. The gleam in his eye told her that she was not overestimating him.

"Well, M. Chauvière, tell me. How is it that you would like to assist Interpol today?"

At this, he grinned and there was a flash of surprise on his features. Delighted surprise, though. She had just proven him right about her. The grin was shocking in its effect – it made him look honest for a moment. She wondered how often he wore a genuine expression instead of that knowing, almost insolent look. Not that she doubted that wasn't sincere. He was too assured and arrogant for it not to be.

He took another sip of his coffee and Veronique arched a dark eyebrow.

"I have recently come into some information that I think would be quite valuable to the right people," he said casually, as if making some off-handed comment about the weather.

"Have you?" she enquired, keeping her voice low and smooth.

"Indeed," he replied, then paused for another sip of coffee. "It's astonishing what sort of information one can gather working in international real estate."

"I'm sure it is," Veronique agreed. "You must meet some fascinating people."

"Oh, yes. And it is extraordinary what people will tell you – anecdotes about their families, their travels, their friends, their businesses. Most of this is irrelevant, of course, but occasionally one gleans or is given information that may actually be … pertinent."

He paused, regarding her almost thoughtfully, and she was not fooled for a moment.

"Deciding what to do with said information, that is always the difficult part. Does one keep it or does one sell it? If one keeps it, does one keep it with an eye on selling it later should it become more valuable? It's rather like playing the stock market. One always takes a chance regarding the current, known value versus the possible, unknown future value."

Veronique gave him a pleasant smile.

"There is always the option to do one's civic duty and turn any relevant over to the police," she commented.

"Yes," he agreed with a smile, a more calculated one this time. "That is always an option."

She fought the urge to grin despite herself, keeping her expression schooled into a pleasant neutrality. She doubted he'd ever done anything based on civic responsibility in his life unless it lined up with what he wanted. She could not bring herself to believe this man had a generous bone in his body.

"If one chooses that option, however, one needs to ensure that the information is going to the proper person. It can't just go to anyone – who knows how it would be used? That would be entirely irresponsible, since giving information to law enforcement means sacrificing any professional gain."

"Of course," Veronique agreed with all apparent sincerity. She liked the use of 'professional gain' rather than 'financial gain'. But it was more accurate too – money wasn't the only thing driving business. Almost as often, what someone knew about someone else could carry equal or greater value.

"And what to do when the information pertains not to our beloved France but to another country? Oh, the police mean well, they really do, but they're scarcely equipped to deal with international matters. They do generally have their hands full keeping the peace here."

Veronique arched an eyebrow. She knew from her contacts with the _Police Nationale_ in Paris that M. Chauvière had never come to their attention. According to them, he led an utterly blameless life and they were quite happy to have no knowledge of him. She wondered again what was really behind those brown eyes and that almost-insolent expression. There would be many an inspector who could make his career out of investigating a man like Chauvière.

"There is Europol," she pointed out. "Unless, of course, this information pertains to a country outside the EU."

"Ah, no, I do believe Greece fits comfortably into the boundaries of our union," he replied.

If she thought he'd had her attention before, he had it in spades now. Following the economic collapse, Greece had become something of a logistical nightmare on all fronts. She herself hadn't been part of any investigations there, because none of the cases on which she'd been working had linked back to Greece at all.

She strongly suspected that was about to change.

"Europol, yes," he agreed. "And perhaps it's best kept within the European boundaries. But Europol does remain limited in its scope."

He finished his coffee and set it aside on the low table between her visitor's chairs. Chauvière gave her a small smile, settling his shoulders back somewhat against the leather back of his seat.

"If one had information about the lack of disclosure on the unprofitable sales of risky assets on the part of several Greek banks, one would do well to consider whether or not the individuals responsible for these investments have significant financial ties to nations outside the European Union and where the misdirected money was going."

Veronique twitched her eyebrows up but kept her expression neutral otherwise.

"Europol does work with various non-EU nations," she pointed out.

"Of course," Chauvière agreed, still smiling his small, knowing smile. "One of the benefits of Interpol, however, is that its network is much vaster and it operates in far more countries. A larger network means a great likelihood of contacts that can provide pertinent information, which will, in turn, allow the investigation to proceed apace and result in the appropriate convictions."

"This is true," she agreed, giving him a pleasant smile. She wondered if he was having as much fun as she was. It was actually entertaining to meet with someone who so clearly on the other side of the law but had the grace and sophistication not to show it. And the intelligence to know when information should be turned over to law enforcement. She wondered what he was getting out of it. What would he gain if these financial ventures in Greece were exposed?

She knew she'd never know. He would walk out of here and she may never see him again and he certainly belonged in prison, but she would never have the information to get him there.

But he had no intentions of leaving her empty-handed. That much was obvious.

"And the quality of the investigators themselves must be taken into account," he continued, his brown eyes bright and dancing. "This information cannot simply be entrusted to anyone. One needs to ensure it will be used properly."

There was a faint emphasis on the word 'properly'. She was being warned not to come after him, but he needn't have worried. There was no point wasting her time chasing down a criminal who wouldn't be caught, even if he was sitting right in front of her. She could, yes. She should, yes. But she wouldn't, because it would get her nowhere.

"I understand," she replied, keeping her tone light but firm. "These matters are always sensitive."

He eyed her carefully then another smile crept onto his lips, this one more approving, less mocking.

"Indeed they are," Chauvière murmured in agreement. He held her gaze for a moment and she let him take away whatever he wanted from it. Then he uncrossed his knees, picked up his briefcase and settled it on his thighs. He flipped it open, withdrew three manila folders and passed them smoothly to her. Veronique accepted them and set them down, flipping open the top one.

"Names, dates, contact information, emails, transactions," he said. "It is by no means complete but it will allow you to launch an investigation quite confidently."

_I'd bet it could be complete_, she mused but kept that from showing on her face. She had no doubt he had all the information she'd require. But if she pointed this out, he'd deny it and comment that it was her job was to conduct the investigation, not his.

He was, after all, nothing more than the French manager for a London-based real estate firm.

"And may I ask where you obtained this?" she enquired, glancing up again.

"You may ask, but you may not like the answer. And I'd hate to displease you, Agent St. Jean."

_Wouldn't you just?_ Veronique thought.

"I'm happy to hear that, M. Chauvière. How can I be in touch should I have any questions regarding this information?"

He pulled a business card from the pocket of his suit jacket and extended it to her. Veronique took it and glanced at it with practiced ease and disinterest. She had no doubt that any attempts to track down more information about him based on the address and phone numbers she now had would yield nothing.

"I will be in London indefinitely in a week's time," he said smoothly. "The number is also on there. I will be less available there, however. You know how these international business meetings are."

She arched an eyebrow at him and gave him a bland smile.

"Thank you very much for you time, M. Chauvière," she said, closing the file and putting his business card on top of the small pile. "Don't stray too far from London. We will most certainly be in touch."

"It would surprise and disappoint me if you were not," he replied with all apparent honesty. He stood and extended his hand to her with a gleam in his brown eyes. Veronique rose as well and shook his hand firmly, earning a brief flash of approval across his features.

"Such a pleasure to meet you, Agent," he said.

"Oh, I'm certain the pleasure was entirely mine," she replied with a smile. He smirked back at her, eyebrows twitching upward. "I look forward to speaking with you again."

_And you are warned_, she thought, keeping her expression pleasant, knowing he had caught that. He smiled quickly, without mirth, in acknowledgement.

"Agent Hebert will show you out," she said, opening her office door for him. The agent in question, working at his desk in one of the cubicles outside, rose with a friendly smile and a nod.

"Thank you very much, Agent St. Jean," he replied.

"And you, M. Chauvière," she replied. "Enjoy your time in London."

He gave her one of those startlingly real grins again.

"Oh, I intend to," he assured her. "Until next time."

She nodded and watched Hebert lead him away, then shut the door to her office gently behind her. Veronique sat back down in her chair, counted very slowly to thirty, then sighed deeply, dropping her head back, turning her face to the ceiling. She gave herself a minute to refocus, then sat up, pulled the top file toward her and got back to work.


	46. Chapter 46

"You might have warned me."

Sherlock grinned.

"And had I done so, you would not have enjoyed yourself nearly as much," he replied. He heard the faint irritated exhalation on the other end of the phone line. "Oh, don't tell me that wasn't entertaining."

"That would be one word for it," Charles replied dryly. "Although I think perhaps 'an ambush' would be a better descriptor."

Sherlock snorted.

"You undoubtedly had more information about her than she had about you. And you knew I was sending you. Hardly an ambush, Charles. I'm sure you had a stimulating conversation."

"She is, frankly, astonishing," Charles said. "I do believe that's the first time I've ever regretted not having an interest in women. I've never met any other woman quite so remarkable. Not even Irene."

Sherlock grinned – he'd felt the same way about Veronique St. Jean upon meeting her. Such a shame to let that opportunity pass him by, although he wondered what kind of man could actually hold his own against her. She would be no simpler in her personal life than in her professional life, but Sherlock was no stranger to people like her. _Charles_ was like her. Sherlock suspected it was just as well that Charles was not interested beyond the same fascination Sherlock felt for St. Jean. The two of them together would probably have razed Paris to the ground over the smallest of arguments.

"How do you know her?" Charles asked.

"I've never spoken to her, actually," Sherlock replied. "She attempted to recruit Gabriel for Interpol when he was seventeen."

There was a pause.

"Really?" Charles asked. He'd known about Interpol's interest in Gabriel, of course, but not the specifics.

"Oh yes. I got to him first."

"Just as well," Charles sighed. "Although unfortunate that you couldn't have laid claimed St. Jean before Interpol did. Such a shame to see such talent go to waste."

Sherlock clucked his tongue.

"Hardly to waste, Charles," he admonished. "I think she'll serve us far better in her current position than she would working for me – and better than any other Interpol agent would, too. Anyone else would fuss about trying to investigate you as well. She won't."

"I did get that," Charles replied dryly. Sherlock nodded to himself; he knew Charles had. He'd trained the Frenchman himself, after all. "But I suspect this was not the only conversation I will be having with her."

"No," Sherlock agreed.

"I need some sort of compensation for this, Sherlock," Charles said, a low growl in his voice.

"I do already pay your salary, Charles," Sherlock pointed out.

"Dealing with St. Jean requires far more than my usual salary," Charles retorted, but Sherlock could hear the edge of cynical humour in his voice.

"A bonus?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Not precisely what I had in mind," Charles replied.

"Well, I'm sure we can come to some arrangement. I'd hate for you to be displeased."

"As would I," Charles assured him and Sherlock rolled his eyes with a wry smile.

"We'll discuss it when you arrive. Finish up this tedious legal nonsense with the lawyers. I will see you next week."

"Until then," Charles replied. "Good-bye."

Sherlock bid Charles good-bye as well, rung off and set his phone back in its cradle. He leaned back in his chair, pushing back from the desk and turning so that he could look out over the river and the city spreading out from its banks. The day was overcast and gloomy but unlikely to rain before nightfall. Sherlock crossed his hands comfortably on his stomach and allowed himself to enjoy a brief moment of peace.

He had largely finished work for the day – some loose ends to tidy up here and there but nothing that could not wait until the following day. His meetings were finished and – he checked the time – Tina was preparing to go home any moment now. Just as he thought this, there was a soft knock on the door and she slipped in, smiling at him.

"I'm on my way in about five minutes," she said. "Do you need anything before I go?"

Sherlock shook his head, giving her a smile. She had been an exceptional find – like everyone he hired, of course. But her organisation skills consistently outmatched his tendencies to let his office turn into a disaster zone. He knew it was entirely because of her that it remained something approaching tidy whatsoever.

"No," he said. "Although please confirm Ms. Adler's hotel reservation tomorrow. She'll be put out if it isn't up to her standards." He sighed, then gave a rueful smile. "I have no desire to deal with her moods. I'm entirely certain I wouldn't win."

Tina's lips split into a grin; she was, of course, long familiar with dealing with Irene Adler's 'moods'.

"Of course," she agreed. "I'll make sure everything is perfect."

"Good," Sherlock replied vaguely. "Do you have arrangements made for the others?"

"Everything is all set," Tina answered, nodding. "I have accommodations and drivers for everyone. I've put together a timetable. Should I email it to you now?"

"No, we'll go over it tomorrow," Sherlock replied. He paused, then frowned. "Who's meeting M. Chauvière at the airport?"

"Gerald."

"Hmm, good," Sherlock said, turning back to the window for a moment. He needn't really have asked – Gerald was his driver. He always went to meet Charles. Sherlock turned back to Tina and smiled again.

"As always, I do appreciate your hard work. Go home, enjoy your evening."

"Will do, sir," she said with a smile and ducked out of his office again, closing the door gently behind her. Sherlock turned toward the window again, absently picking up a pen and tapping it against his lips as he thought. It was so rare to have a moment like this, when no one demanded his attention, when nothing needed to be taken care of.

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, focusing on counting his inhalations and exhalations, allowing himself to relax. Cheryl had taken him to a meditation seminar while they had both been in university and shortly after she'd begun working for him. Initially, Sherlock had been sceptical – it seemed like little more than New Age nonsense. He'd been surprised to learn that the techniques were centuries old and that the mere act of focusing on his breathing was quite beneficial and relaxing. It had helped, too, when Gabriel had forced him to more or less stop smoking.

Twelve minutes later, there was another knock on the door and Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile. He refocused slightly, turning his chair.

"Come in, John!" he called. The doctor had a distinctive knock, almost military in its precision and timing.

The door opened inward and John came in, carrying his medical bag. Sherlock made an open gesture to the couch and chairs with his palm and John accepted the unspoken invitation, putting the leather bag down on the leather sofa.

"How is Gabriel?" Sherlock enquired.

John sighed almost imperceptibly – he disliked sharing information about his patients. Sherlock didn't care. It was scarcely a problem if this was illegal and it was information he needed to know. Not knowing would impede his ability to do his job. And Gabriel was his friend. The concern was therefore both professional and personal – which made it all the more vital that he knew the details.

"He's doing well," John replied. "The incision's healing nicely and the swelling is mostly gone, which is what I'd expect right now. The bruising is clearing up well, too, and I'm sending him for another round of x-rays at the end of the week to see how the bone is doing. It might take longer for the fractures to seal since he can't put any weight on it because of the soft tissue injury. But once he's able to start walking again, that will speed up the bone repair process a bit."

"Hmm," Sherlock said. He wasn't certain if that was good news or not.

"That's standard for this kind of injury," John said and Sherlock nodded – not necessarily good news then, but not unexpected. "If it was just the bone, he'd be back on it with partial weight in a week or two. Because it's mostly soft tissue, it's just going to take longer. Sorry, Sherlock, I know you don't like waiting, but that's all you can do."

"Very well," Sherlock sighed, tossing his pen back onto his desk. "I bow to your obvious medical expertise."

"It is why you hired me," John pointed out.

"I do not need to be reminded," Sherlock replied and John just nodded.

"He's doing fairly well for someone who was shot," John said. "I've seen military trained men deal with it much worse than Gabriel."

"Implying that you think Gabriel would deal with it like any other patient," Sherlock snapped. "I may not train my people in the same manner as the military, John, but nor do I hire unremarkable people. What would be the point? Why surround myself with imbeciles or even tedious normality? No, thank you."

John gave him a thoughtful look for a moment, then nodded again.

"Nonetheless," he said. "He's still doing very well. He's lucky he's got people who care about his well being, like you. And that nurse girlfriend of his, Sandra."

Sherlock scowled slightly at the mention of Sandra Casey. Gabriel had never been seriously romantically involved with anyone before and Sherlock preferred it that way – it was better if his young associate was focussed on his job.

He was strongly inclined to dislike her because she had appeared unexpectedly in Gabriel's life and he had taken a deep and immediate interest in her. Sherlock objected to surprises of a personal nature. Circumstances were best managed when they were anticipated and avoided complicated emotional entanglements. How unfortunate that even exceptional people like Gabriel remained so human in some respects. He would have confessed disappointment – except he reluctantly agreed with John. Sandra _was_ beneficial to Gabriel.

He would never admit this out loud, however.

And Sandra was one of those rare people who was simply difficult to dislike. Sherlock had attempted to but it hadn't worked. He felt this was unfair. Surely he should be allowed to hold whatever opinion of her he found appropriate.

"Yes," he said vaguely in response to John's statement.

The doctor was looking at him with a medically evaluating look on his face. Sherlock met it with a neutral gaze and John's lips twitched into a small smile. It was a true smile, Sherlock noted. It lit his brown eyes, made them warmer.

"What about you? When was the last time you had a physical exam?"

"Six months, three weeks, four days and … four hours," Sherlock replied promptly.

"You just remember that off the top of your head?" John asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I find doctor's visits unpleasant. However, Doctor Stamford does insist, as I expect you will, too."

John unfolded his arms, surprise flashing across his features.

"Stamford? Not – Michael Stamford?"

"Oh yes, of course you trained with him at Bart's."

"I didn't know he worked for you," John said.

"In an occasional capacity. He has a family, which limits his availability. He also has a practice of his own. Hence the need to hire you."

"Small world," John said wonderingly.

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's only one city, albeit a large one," he commented.

"I haven't seen him in – must be over ten years now. Huh."

Sherlock let John reminisce for a moment then the doctor snapped out of it, shaking his head.

"Come with me," John said and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I do believe I am the employer here," he commented.

"Yes, and I'm the doctor," John replied. "You look like you could use some fresh air."

Sherlock considered this a moment.

"And how does one look like one could use some fresh air?" he enquired.

John grinned.

"Medical secret," he said. "Sorry, can't tell you. I swore an oath."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You should know, I detest surprises."

"Fine then – I'm proposing you get out of your office and come with me for a walk. Your driver can drop us at Regent's Park, right?"

"Why Regent's Park?"

"It's close to my flat," John said. "Easy for me to get home."

Sherlock gave John a long, evaluating look but the doctor seemed sincere. He glanced over his shoulder out the window, but the rain was still holding off and it wasn't as though he didn't have an umbrella. And he was a Londoner. Rain was not unexpected. He contemplated the offer for a moment, then nodded.

"Very well," he agreed. John grinned and Sherlock rose and fetched his coat, scarf and gloves. He locked up his office behind him and called Gerald, arranging to be picked up in front of the building. The driver pulled round in a few minutes – he was never far. He took Sherlock's request to be taken to Regent's Park with his typical aplomb. On Sherlock's instructions, Gerald left them to drop John's medical bag off with Mrs. Hudson so that the doctor would not have to carry it with him.

"Do you do this often?" Sherlock asked as they entered the park, strolling along a footpath. "Walk in the park in the winter?"

John laughed.

"This isn't cold – nothing like the winters in Afghanistan. And it's nice to be outside without having to constantly be aware of who might be trying to shoot me."

"Hmph," Sherlock replied noncommittally.

"I come walking here sometimes," John said. "It really is good to be home."

"You weren't raised in the city," Sherlock pointed out, to which John rolled his eyes. But Sherlock made it his business to know his employees' histories.

"Well, no. But I moved here when I was sixteen to go to college. So it's been home most of my adult life – well, while I was in education anyway. Afterwards, the army was my home. And I went where they sent me."

Sherlock nodded – he knew this, too.

"Did you grow up here?" John asked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the personal question but did not object.

"No," he said. "Buckinghamshire."

"Oh, right, you said your parents live out there."

"Yes. Although we did spend a significant amount of time in the city when I was younger. My father's business brought him here often."

John nodded and Sherlock noted the doctor wasn't asking what William Holmes did. It amused him to think that John was reluctant to find out. He already knew what Sherlock did, after all. But perhaps that was what made him hesitant. He smiled to himself – John was quite predictable in some ways. But yet, he somehow managed not to be dull. It was fascinating.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, passing a young couple who were strolling in the other direction; they were bundled up, one arm around the other's waist, drawn together for warmth and companionship. Sherlock had no opinion on this but he noted that it made John smile.

"I like to people watch," John commented. "It's nice to see so many people not worried about anything, just able to enjoy life. Not waiting for an alarm to sound or worrying about people they know out on patrol or thinking of the next time they have to go out themselves."

Sherlock nodded – he had never considered that, but he had never had any reason to. In his experience, people could be distracted and unhappy anywhere, regardless of their circumstances. He appreciated the shine of coming home may not have worn off for John yet.

"You must be good at it – people watching I mean."

"I do quite enough of that whilst working," Sherlock replied dryly. "I have no desire to do it as a leisure activity." He had done so at Cambridge, though, on occasion. It was how he had met Cheryl. Watching her watching him, aware that she was registering less information about him than he was about her, but more than most people would pick up. It had convinced him to speak to her and that had led to him hiring her.

John grinned.

"Well, the good thing about these people is that they aren't interested in you," he pointed out.

Sherlock huffed quietly.

"I am not particularly interested in people who are uninterested in me," he replied. This made John's smile twitch a bit wider. Sherlock bundled his hands into his pockets and John paused, then nodded toward a nearby chippy.

"Let's get something to eat," he said.

"Fish and chips?" Sherlock enquired.

John gave him a surprised look.

"Don't tell me you've never had fish and chips."

"It's been quite some time," Sherlock said dryly. "Possibly since I was an adolescent. It hardly qualifies as my standard fare."

John flashed him another grin.

"You can't be a proper Londoner without indulging occasionally. And I know I missed it while I was away, so come on. It's on me."

"That's not necessary," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well my boss pays me fairly well," John replied and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come on. I'm going to get some even if you don't want any."

Sherlock shook his head in resignation – if he didn't agree, John would probably argue for it on medical grounds, as though deep fried food had any nutritional value whatsoever.

He joined the doctor at the stand, unsurprised that John was placing an order for each of them. He gave Sherlock the first basket and Sherlock set it down to pull off his gloves and fold them into his pockets. They found a bench on which to sit so John could continue his people watching and they could eat without fumbling and looking ridiculous.

_Fascinating_, Sherlock thought as he tried the greasy, salty food. He was astonished to realise it was not as unpalatable as he imagined it would be – in fact, he was genuinely enjoying it. On a chilly day, it was a welcome warm break.

He was also quite shocked to realise that John had surprised him yet again and that perhaps he was not so adverse to surprises as he had thought, as long as they were pleasant ones.


	47. Chapter 47

Gabriel looked up from his book when he heard the door to his flat being unlocked and opened. He marked his place with a finger and smiled when he heard a familiar voice call:

"Hello? It's me!"

"In the living room!" he replied. He'd given Sandra a key and the code for the security system; it was easier than getting up to let her in each time. Although moving around was not quite as tiring as it had been, it remained awkward. He was taking John's advice and going for short walks, but could only manage about ten minutes on the crutches before he started to feel worn out. It would be nice to be able to put partial weight on his leg again, but John had warned him it would still be awhile.

He set his book aside when Sandra came into the living room with Sam. She grinned and bent down to kiss him as the little dog bounded onto the couch to sniff Gabriel's cast curiously, as she always did.

"You look better," Sandra commented, pulling back and giving him a quick professional evaluation. Gabriel grinned and caught her face in his hands, pulling her into another kiss. Sam jumped off the couch again and pressed up against Sandra's legs, her tail wagging madly.

"Thanks," he said, reaching down to scratch Sam between the ears, making her tail beat harder. "I'm feeling better. I'm glad John gave me that extra week off."

"Mm, me too," she agreed with a smile and another kiss. "Do you want to go out? Sam could use a walk."

He hesitated – not out of a desire to stay sitting on his couch, because he certainly did enough of that lately – but out of a momentary flash of concern.

_Well,_ he thought, _Jim's likely to know by now. He's always watching somewhere._

Gabriel didn't like that thought even though he was long used to it by now. And despite what Sherlock believed, Gabriel didn't think Jim would actually do anything really threatening to him. Sending Richard in a cab was one thing. That had probably just been to see what Richard would do. But beyond that, Gabriel didn't think Jim would push it.

There were a small number of people for whom Sherlock would forgo all decorum and see London burnt to the ground to get them back if Jim took them. Gabriel, Charles Chauvière, Cheryl Crowther, David Holmes, Angela MacTaggart, and now most likely John Watson. And Gabriel knew Jim wasn't particularly interested in him, not really. Sherlock was the real prize, the real obsession.

"Too tired?" Sandra asked, misinterpreting his expression.

"No," Gabriel said, shaking his head. "Let's go."

He was better at getting himself ready now and by the time Sandra had bundled back up in her coat and got Sam on her lead, he was almost set to go. She carried an umbrella for both of them – that was one thing he couldn't manage on his own. He hoped it wouldn't rain, though. Being out on crutches in the rain was unpleasant.

He had a driver take them round to Hyde Park. Sam stood on Sandra's lap the whole way, sticking her nose out of the window and wagging her tail fiercely. Sandra kept a tight hold on her lead when they got out of the car and the little dog tried to go everywhere at once, sniffing all the new scents.

The sky was low, threatening rain and if the temperature dropped much more overnight, they would probably get some snow. Gabriel was glad he'd bundled up warmly. He thought of how often he'd simply gone for a walk in the park – or even a walk outside – before being shot and was disappointed to realise he could not really remember the last time he'd done so. His time outdoors had been limited to morning runs and brief moments between buildings and cars.

_Another thing to change_, he thought ruefully. Sandra had mentioned she enjoyed hill walking. Gabriel didn't think he'd ever gone – certainly he'd been hiking in the Alps while on holidays, but he had never bothered to do so in his own country.

"Would you like to go to Yorkshire?" he asked.

Sandra glanced at him with a grin. They were walking closely enough to be arm-in-arm, if it weren't for the crutches. Gabriel felt a sudden flash of irritation but smoothed it over. He wanted to be able to take her hand or her arm or wrap an arm around her waist. It felt like an imposed, artificial distance and he disliked it.

"What, right now?" she asked.

He grinned back.

"In the spring, when both the weather and my leg are better. I'd like to take you on holiday. And I've never been up there."

"You've never been to Yorkshire?"

"Well, to York for business."

"Well then we definitely have to go," she said with a smile. "But you don't have to take me – I can pay my own way."

"I know you can," Gabriel replied easily. "It could be your birthday present."

She paused and gave him a look torn between amusement and mild disbelief.

"You remember my birthday?" she asked.

"The eighteenth of May," he replied. "You did say."

"I hardly expected you to remember after a month of dating me."

Gabriel shrugged as best he could on the crutches.

"It's important."

She laughed, glancing away, then looked back before stopping to pull him into a deep kiss.

"Then yes, I will go to Yorkshire with you and make sure you enjoy a proper holiday and see the moors and do all the things there are to do that don't involve business meetings."

He grinned, giving her another quick kiss.

They walked awhile longer, talking about the places they had been and the places they dreamt of going. Sandra had always wanted to go to Egypt and had spent some time travelling on the continent, although her holidays there had been far different than his. He'd become accustomed to not thinking about the cost of anything, to simply being able to afford whatever he wanted or needed. It was shocking sometimes to remember that things had not always been that way. It was too easy to take it for granted, particularly working for Sherlock who came from old money and saw his own personal fortune as more of a means of keeping score than actual financial gain.

After about ten minutes, Gabriel found a bench to sit on, sighing in relief when he shook the crutches from his arms.

"I'm going to give Sam about another fifteen minutes, is that all right?" Sandra asked.

"Of course," he replied and leant up to kiss her. She kissed back, running her fingers into his hair then smiled at him, her breath warm against his lips.

"See you soon," she said and he watched her walk away appreciatively. When she was out of sight, he settled back against the bench and watched the other park patrons. Years of working with Sherlock had taught him to pick out the people watching him in return and look for any suspicious signs. Of course some of Jim's people were probably in there. They always were. And some of Sherlock's own low level people were there, too, but they probably had not been sent to keep an eye on him. Sherlock would send someone higher up, likely someone Gabriel would recognise.

Some people just looked at him out of curiosity – mostly they were passingly interested in his injury. He could discern those by the focus on his cast or crutches. Some attention he received was only cursory, the brief flicker of eyes from a jogger or cyclist noting potential obstacles. He got one or two appraising looks but dismissed these – another time, he might have returned them. Now they were irrelevant.

He pulled out his phone and read for a few minutes, keeping his attention split between the story and his surroundings. Sherlock had taught him to do that, too. Years ago, it had given him headaches and he couldn't sustain it long. Now he did it without thinking. But today the park was just a park and, after about seventeen minutes, he caught sight of Sandra returning out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and smiled, putting his phone away. She was carrying a take away cup and smiled back from a distance, holding it up to him. His grin widened in response.

Gabriel felt a drop or two of rain touch his face and glanced up, noting that Sandra mimicked his movement. She picked up her pace, managing to juggle Sam's lead and the coffee cup enough to pull the umbrella from her handbag but just as she did so, the sky opened up. She hurried toward him, umbrella already unfurled, but by the time she reached him, Gabriel was drenched. He grinned when she bent over to try and shelter both of them.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "Keep yourself dry."

They hurried back to the car, collapsing in the back in a puddle of rain water and shared laughter. Back at his flat, Sandra let Sam off her lead and the dog wandered away, sniffing around the flat curiously, as she always did.

"Shower," Sandra declared and he grinned, letting himself be led into the bathroom. She stripped him down with what would have been professional efficiency if he hadn't caught the teasing in her touch. He rolled his eyes but smiled. Nothing was going to happen in the shower, not with his leg the way it was.

Sandra undressed as well and adjusted the water temperature while Gabriel removed his cast carefully and shifted himself expertly onto the small shower stool. Sandra washed his hair and body with deep movements that were more massage than clinical. They towelled off enough to be reasonably dry then made their way into the bedroom. Sam raised her head disinterestedly from her favourite sleeping spot in front of the fireplace, only to settle back down, ignoring them.

Outside, the rain drummed steadily, seemingly giving them permission to stay inside and enjoy themselves. The room felt warm and cosy and they took their time, both of them well practiced at adjusting for Gabriel's injured leg.

Later, Sandra pressed a kiss against Gabriel's chest and he hummed, making her smile as he ran his fingers absently through her hair.

"You should get a fire in your bedroom," she said.

"Why?" he asked, raising his head.

"Because it would be a perfect day to lie in front of one and I'd say we could spread out the blankets in the living room but there's a damp dog in the way."

Gabriel grinned.

"And it's not a real fire," he pointed out.

"Mm, don't shatter the illusion," Sandra replied. Gabriel chuckled.

"It comes to something when a dog's telling us where we can't be," he said. "I'm sure we can reason with her."

Sandra grinned and pulled away.

"Let's do it, then," she said.

She did most of the work getting Sam resettled and the blankets spread out, but Gabriel felt he made some contribution by turning on the fire and making tea. Sandra fetched the two cups and brought them into the living room and they lay down, half propped on pillows, half propped against each other, snuggled down under the down duvet.

"How's your leg?" she asked.

"Fine," he replied with a grin, pressing a kiss against her temple.

"The weather's not making it hurt?"

"No, it's not bothering me," he replied.

"Good," she said, snuggling down a bit more against him then sipping her tea. "I thought maybe that was why you were reluctant to go out earlier."

"Oh," he said, then shook his head. "No."

Sandra tilted her head back, frowning slightly. Gabriel smoothed his fingers over the wrinkles on her forehead caused by her expression. She relaxed somewhat, but kept her concerned gaze on him.

"It's not – something to do with your brother, is it?" she asked carefully. He shook his head again, a little more firmly this time. He'd told her about Richard – not everything, but enough. She didn't know about the assault or the abduction, not because he didn't think she could handle it, but because he didn't want to her to carry it. Not so soon anyway.

He'd been surprised how well she'd taken the admission that he was bisexual – he'd met women before who were either uncomfortable with the idea that he might leave them for another man or who were overly curious. Sandra had just nodded and when he'd pointed this out to her, she'd laughed and reminded him that for the first few days of she'd known him, he'd had a 'boyfriend'. Gabriel had groaned at that; he'd almost managed to forget about Sherlock's so-called romantic partnership. He wondered what the police would think if they ever picked up on the fact that he and Sherlock had 'broken up' but still worked together.

"No, no news on Richard," he said. And he'd never let her carry that truth – only he, Sherlock and Cheryl knew what had happened and only Cheryl knew where Richard was.

Gabriel paused, catching his lower lip between his teeth. He'd been wondering about this for some time now. What to say, how to say it, how much to disclose. He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, pressing a kiss against the top of her head. He closed his eyes and inhaled, committing her scent to memory in case this was the last time he'd smell it.

He didn't want to lose this – to lose _her _– but she was an intelligent woman. She'd figure out there was more going on than she was being told, if she hadn't already done so.

And then what? What could feasibly happen? She was a good person. She was a nurse. Her profession involved helping people, healing them. He could be honest to himself about what he did. He was a criminal. And he enjoyed it. He didn't want to give it up – and he wouldn't. It had brought him too much.

It was jarring to realise for the first time it might actually take something away from him. He'd never considered that, not really. The only other people who could genuinely take something from him were the police. Knowing that, he and Sherlock kept themselves several careful steps ahead of the law at all times.

"What is it?" Sandra asked.

Gabriel sighed.

"My job."

"Are you worried about going back? We can manage the schedule, you know. I know it's not as set as mine and you'll be busy once you go back full-time, but – " She stopped with a frown when he shook his head.

"No, that's not it," he said. "I know we could work that out."

Her frowned twitched, deepening slightly, but she nodded.

"Then what?" Her voice was soft, no hint of accusation.

"It –" Gabriel drew a deep breath. "It's not exactly what I've led you to believe. I –"

Sandra held up a hand quickly, her expression hardening somewhat, and Gabriel cut himself off quickly, feeling a stab of disappointment that hurt even though he'd been expecting it.

"I know," she said.

The disappointment shifted to confusion and he searched her face quickly, giving his head a small shake.

"You know?"

"Well, I don't _know_," she clarified. "But I sort of guessed. Most shooting victims that end up on my ward are police officers, criminals, or their victims. Most of them don't get shot defending someone else's home. And very few could shoot back with any kind of accuracy after being shot themselves. And I don't meet many VPs of real estate companies who carry a weapon and know how to use it properly."

He stared at her for a moment, then said: "Ah" because it was the only thing he could think of to say. Gabriel shook his head to clear it and refocused himself.

"Then you should know –"

"No, I don't want to know," Sandra interjected.

He paused again.

"Sorry?"

"You don't want to tell me," she said. "And I don't want to know."

"But –"

"It is going to do me any good to know?" she asked. "I like you, Gabriel. I really do. I like this, what we have. I like spending time with you – I like being with you. And I don't want – I don't _need_ to know. But I'll listen if you tell me."

He gazed down at her, evaluating her expression, considering his options.

"And if I don't tell you now?" he asked.

"If I ever want to know, I'll ask. But I'll never ask."

Gabriel licked his lips.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

She shifted, staying in his embrace, but turning herself carefully so she could look at him.

"Will you make sure nothing happens to me because of it?"

"Yes, of course," he said quickly. "Anything you want."

Her lips quirked into a slight smile.

"Then that's all I want to know," she said. "I can't talk to you about most of my job, because of patient confidentiality. And yours? Let's say the same."

He simply stared at her and her eyes flickered across his features, looking for – something, he was not sure what.

He should tell her. He _knew_ he should tell her. If he didn't, then he was keeping part of himself from her, keeping some of the truth from her. But she didn't want the truth, not that part of it anyway.

_She should know_, he thought vaguely,_ so she can make a choice._

But she already had.

_She's making the choice based on incomplete information_, he told himself. Sherlock had taught him never to do that when at all possible.

She didn't work for Sherlock. She was making a decision based on what she knew already and she didn't want more information. He could keep doing what he'd always done. She didn't want to know. He'd be effectively lying to her, but that's what she wanted.

"If you ever want to know, I will tell you," he promised.

Sandra smiled slightly.

"I know. And that's why I'll never need to ask."

He should still tell her. He knew he should. She deserved the truth.

But he nodded, swallowing hard.

"All right," he said.

Sandra's smile grew.

"Thank you," she replied and leant forward to kiss him.


	48. Chapter 48

**A/N:** I haven't forgotten about you guys, I promise!

* * *

><p>John would have been ready, had Sherlock not shown up early that Friday morning.<p>

Had he been instructed to be prepared earlier? No, surely he would have remembered. The doctor opened his door to a pleasant smile.

"'Morning, Sherlock," he said. "Not quite ready yet, sorry."

"Of course not," Sherlock said. "I am early. I don't expect you sit up all night, prepared to answer the door should I call."

John grinned.

"You don't?" he asked.

"That would be unreasonable. I expect you to be available on short notice should I require it, but I do recognise that some time is needed to make one's self ready."

John chuckled. "Well, come in," he said. "I'll be as quick as I can."

Sherlock wandered in, glancing around with an air of vague curiosity – it put John in mind of someone strolling through a museum. He repressed a shake of his head, because Sherlock would pick up on that, and left his eccentric boss in the living room. John went into the kitchen and drained the rest of his coffee then started the washing up from breakfast. He knew he could have left it; it wasn't that much but he didn't like coming home to a pile of dirty dishes. He kept an ear open for the sound of Sherlock's footsteps, then groaned lightly to himself when he heard them retreat down the hall.

John really, really didn't want Sherlock in his bedroom.

That was to say, he really, really did, but not in a way that would be at all appropriate – he knew it was better for him if his boss stayed out of his personal space. Probably bad enough Sherlock invaded his flat on a semi-regular basis. John shut off the water abruptly, trying to push aside an image of what Sherlock would look like naked on his sheets, that white skin contrasting with the navy blue cotton.

_He'd probably complain about the thread count,_ John told himself firmly. _Someone like him would know about those things_.

John himself had just gone to a department store and bought bed linens he liked in colours he preferred. It had seemed simple. He never thought he'd consider someone complaining about the fabric.

_Well, he's not_, John told himself fiercely. He was about to dislodge himself from his position in front of the sink when he heard the footsteps coming back into the living room. John let out a long, silent sigh and went back to his washing up, trying to act normal. He prayed to any god that may be listening that Sherlock gave him some time to re-centre himself. Presumably a man like Sherlock wasn't interested in someone doing the dishes.

"I quite like what you've done with the space," Sherlock commented, his voice carrying from the other room. John glanced up, but couldn't see his boss past the open doors. It sounded like Sherlock was near the fireplace, though. John wondered if he was examining his books or DVDs on the shelves next to the mantle.

"Thanks," John replied, keeping his tone casual. He absolutely did not think about pushing Sherlock against those shelves and doing all sorts of wonderful things to him.

_Some of those books are Jamie's_, he reminded himself._ He probably wouldn't appreciate that._ The thought made him snicker and he swallowed on that, draining the sink.

"I'm happy with it, too," John said, trying to cover his thoughts with the sound of his voice. "It feels homey."

"Mm," he heard noncommittally from the living room. John dried his hands on the tea towel and took a deep breath.

_Steady on, Watson_, he thought. _You've dealt with much worse than a misguided crush. And you're thirty-eight. Bit old for crushes._

He smiled to himself and went back into the living room where Sherlock was indeed standing in front of the bookshelves, subjecting them to intense scrutiny. He had his arms folded and his grey eyes narrowed somewhat, his dark brows drawn together. It had the effect of making him look his age for once, rather than a very young man, and John was momentarily startled. But the illusion was shattered a moment later when Sherlock glanced up at him with a genuine and knowing smile.

"You're a fan of Ms. Irene Adler," he commented, nodding at the DVDs in front of him. John paused, then nodded. Anything he could have bought, he had on his shelf.

"Yes," he said.

"She was quite good, wasn't she?" Sherlock enquired.

"She was bloody amazing," John said. "I saw her live once. Harry had a girlfriend who got three tickets and I scraped up enough money to pay her back. We all went. She was just – phenomenal."

"Quite a talent," Sherlock replied, nodding.

"I had a friend in uni who introduced me to her – well, not to her personally, of course, but her films and music. I was surprised when she retired. I mean, she's not much younger than me. I suppose acting must be tiring. Lots of long hours, that sort of thing."

Sherlock gave him another smile, a twitch of his lips and a gleam of his grey eyes.

"Says the former army surgeon," he commented. John gave a rueful smile in return.

"Well – good point," he admitted.

"As for Ms. Adler's retirement, it was a blow to those who followed her work, although admittedly there were likely other opera singers and actors who profited from her absence. But you needn't worry about her health, John – she retired from the entertainment industry simply because she received a better offer elsewhere."

John blinked and frowned then felt his eyes widen in sudden realisation. Sherlock's lips split into a grin and he chuckled quietly.

"You mean – what – you?" John managed to ask.

Sherlock nodded and John stared.

"You're kidding!" the doctor exclaimed, certain his boss was pulling his leg. This had to be a joke. Sherlock did have a really odd sense of humour and he was an excellent actor himself. For a moment, John wondered if that's how Sherlock had met Irene Adler. It wasn't just law enforcement that had lost out when Sherlock had bent his considerable intellect and skills to organised crime, it was the acting world as well.

_He could have done anything_, John though with an uncomfortable mixture of wonder and disapproval. _And he chose this._

For a moment, John felt off-balanced thinking of all the good that could have been done with that intelligence – and not just his, but that of everyone who worked for him, too.

"Entirely serious," Sherlock replied. "There were some … sensitive personal matters several years ago that necessitated a change in careers for Ms. Adler. By happy coincidence, I was able to assist her in that regard. I believe we both benefited greatly from the arrangement."

John wondered what the 'sensitive personal matters' were, but then recalled Sherlock stating that women were not his area of expertise. But Irene Adler? Surely if there was any one woman on the planet who might make Sherlock think twice about it, it would be her. John remembered very clearly how magnetic and alluring she'd been when he'd seen her live. How much appealing would she be in person?

"She is my regional manager in Ireland, which is quite a delicate assignment and is no task for the faint of heart."

John frowned in confusion. He couldn't imagine why Ireland would be so much more risky than France, where he knew Sherlock also had a 'regional manager'. He wondered if criminal relations between the two countries had as fraught a history as the political relations did. But they were criminals – by very definition their jobs must be tricky.

"Why?" he asked without thinking, then cursed himself quickly. But Sherlock would tell him if he'd overstepped. His boss was good at that.

Sherlock gave him a surprised look, raising both his eyebrows.

"Surely you noticed Jim Moriarty's accent?" he enquired. "Southern Irish. He's originally from Laois."

John was surprised – he hadn't thought of it at the time, actually. He'd been more concerned with the injured man Moriarty had hauled in, keeping the psychopath from his own patient, and getting through the fraught meeting alive and in one piece. And he'd tried not to think about it at all since.

"Ms. Adler is the reason I am here early today," Sherlock continued, jostling John back to the present. "She is arriving from Dublin shortly and I will meet with her after she's had the opportunity to settle into her hotel room." He paused and flashed John another one of his brilliant grins. "Would you like to meet her?"

* * *

><p>For awhile, John thought Sherlock might be having him on about meeting Irene Adler. The idea that she worked for him was still too astonishing. Sherlock seemed to think nothing of it and, instead of going to meet her, Sherlock went into his office. They passed the morning doing regular work – that was to say, Sherlock did his regular work and John did whatever he was told, which was not much at the moment. He tried to listen and learn, which had been part of his original instructions, and he gathered from the meeting Sherlock was having with Tina that several of his so-called regional managers were arriving in London within the coming days. It was shocking to realise he was privy to arrangements for what was essentially an organised crime conference.<p>

_If the police knew about this… _he thought. _They'd have a field day._ He could only imagine what sort of publicity and recognition it would garner for the Met to act while all of Sherlock's high-ranking people – and Sherlock himself – were in the same place. Watching Tina go over the schedule for arrivals and transportation arrangements made John feel a sense of disorientation. In Afghanistan, they'd spent countless hours patrolling, looking for Taliban operatives, hide outs, weapons caches – but it had always felt like they were just scratching the surface, only scooping up the people on the fringes, never getting close to the core.

He wondered if the police felt like that. He wondered if they had any idea what they were fighting. Obviously not everyone committing crime could work for Sherlock – or Jim Moriarty or any other organised crime syndicate in the city – but he wondered how many of them did and didn't know it. How many robbers or petty criminals were part of these networks without even being aware of it?

It made his head swim and he tried to ignore it. It was just as well he'd most likely be able to let Gabriel return to work next week – he had no desire to be involved in any of these meetings.

Watching Sherlock with his head bent over the schedules Tina had placed on his desk, nodding along when she spoke, interjecting with questions or small changes, it was easy to forget exactly what he did. Sherlock was dressed in a dark grey suit and medium blue silk shirt, both colours which contrasted sharply with his pale skin. Tina was in a smart white blouse, a sensible black skirt and heels, wearing a thin gold chain around her neck and a matching bracelet on her left wrist. If John had walked in on the scene without context, he would never had imagined it was anything more than legitimate business.

He wondered how many people Sherlock had had killed. He wondered if the man in front of him had killed any of them himself.

Then John thought of the people he'd killed and the people he'd saved. It was unpleasant to think about the parallels. He didn't think it should apply. He'd been working _against_ this sort of thing.

_And now you work for it_, he thought with an inward sigh. For a moment, he looked forward to returning to his duties as a doctor and as Mrs. Hudson's security. That was what he'd been hired for, after all. He could live with that job description. The rest of it was getting increasingly unnerving and he was becoming uncomfortably aware that he was not nearly as opposed to Sherlock or his job as he ought to be. The attraction and fascination were ill-advised but he couldn't quite shake them. Maybe when he wasn't working with Sherlock all of the time… maybe then it would be easier.

He watched as Sherlock traced an index finger across the page then tapped something. Tina nodded and was giving him details but John wasn't listening. His eyes focused on those beautiful, long-fingered hands and wondered what they could do. Sherlock played the violin. That meant very fine motor control. _How fine?_ John wondered, then realised what he was doing and repressed the thought with an angry admonishment to himself.

He really had to stop this. It wasn't as if Sherlock was actually giving him any encouragement.

_Except the looks_, John's brain supplied. _ And the wish to have you around all the time. And the way he talks to you about random things, like skydiving._

_Right, _he retorted_, Shut up. He's probably like that with everyone and just misses having his business partner around. He probably acts like that with Gabriel all the time – in fact, he sort of does and you know it. So stop imagining things that aren't there and bloody well get over it._

At that precise moment, Sherlock looked up at him and smiled one of those rare genuine smiles that erased any hint of menace or cynicism from his features, that made his eyes light up and made him look almost angelic. John was momentarily startled but fought down on the reaction. It was so shocking to see Sherlock look truly happy about something. It made him look stunning – more so than normal.

"Thank you, Tina," Sherlock said, looking up at his secretary. "Brilliant work, as always." John realised with a jolt that the meeting had concluded and he hadn't been aware of it. He hoped Sherlock would ascribe that to unnecessary daydreaming and not fantasising about him.

"You're welcome," Tina replied with a smile, collecting her papers.

"Have Gerald bring the car round," Sherlock said to her. He stood and tugged lightly on his suit jacket to straighten it, then gave John another dazzling smile. "Doctor Watson and I are going to meet an idol of his."


	49. Chapter 49

"There are two things you should not discuss," Sherlock said once they were in the car, moving through the London traffic. "The circumstances that led her to work for me and her divorce."

John gave him a surprised look and nodded. Whilst Sherlock suspected that John had enough tact not to broach either subject, one never knew with fans. Irene's retirement from the stage had been fairly quiet because he had ensured it be so. It had cost quite a bit of money and required Cheryl's specialised skills more than once. It had also involved some serious negotiation with Jim in the form of holding his two most valuable Irish lieutenants hostage for nearly two weeks and routinely sending him updates and photographs of their condition until he acquiesced to the demands.

Her divorce, on the other hand, had been irritatingly highly publicised. It had come just over a year after she'd begun working for him. Sherlock had hoped that she'd have been safely out of the spotlight by then, but the tabloids still adored her even now.

"Of course," John agreed and Sherlock smiled. He supposed he should have requested that John wear one of his new suits, although – surprisingly – he preferred the doctor in his typical jumpers. The suits looked stunning on him, of course. Anything Pierre made looked stunning. But there was something so quintessentially _John_ about the way the doctor was dressed today, in a knitted off-white jumper and a pair of smart black jeans. He'd made a stab at formality with a pair of muted black leather dress shoes. On anyone else, Sherlock might have found the combination odd. On John, it worked.

He smiled to himself; he always did appreciate when people looked good.

When they pulled up in front of 51 Buckingham Gate, Sherlock grinned at the expression on his doctor's face. It was so rare for him to see that pleasantly shocked look anymore. He could recall a time when Gabriel had worn it often, but those days were long past and his young associate had adjusted to the finer things in life. Others close to Sherlock – Charles, Irene – had lived with luxury all their lives and had never considered it out of the ordinary. Nor had Sherlock, of course, but he did enjoy seeing the appreciation in other people.

They were admitted to the suite via its private entrance by Irene's valet, Alexander, who greeted them with a respectful nod and led them into the sitting room before offering them tea. Sherlock accepted as a matter of course but noted that John seemed surprised to be waited on. Sherlock tried to imagine Irene making tea herself for her guests and he found the image made the edges of lips twitch into a smile.

Alexander served them tea with cucumber sandwiches and small pastries. John thanked the man and received a flicker of a smile in return and a brief nod. The valet had worked for Irene as long as Sherlock had known her and rarely spoke, but his body language and attitude suggested contentment with his job and he was fiercely loyal to the woman whom he served.

Sherlock nodded a thanks to the younger man as well and sipped his tea. Irene would make him wait, but not out of any sort of contrariness or indolence. He'd known her to be ready in under five minutes when she was really needed.

He watched John taking in the room with obvious wonder. It reminded him of David's expression on Christmas morning at the Buckinghamshire house. It was fascinating that a thirty-eight year old man could have the same awestruck expression as a five year old boy. On anyone else, it would have looked childish. On John, it looked sincere and appreciative.

He heard a faint noise from down the corridor in the three-bedroom suite and pushed himself easily to his feet, straightening his jacket. Cued by his movement, John stood as well. A moment later, Irene glided in and smiled warmly at him, her dark blue eyes lighting up.

"Sherlock," she greeted and he stepped toward her, exchanging light kisses against each cheek.

"Irene," he replied. "May I say that you look absolutely stunning?"

Her smile deepened and he could see the glow of appreciation in her eyes; she did enjoy compliments about her appearance. He wasn't one to begrudge her that vanity – he was more than guilty about being proud of his own looks and of knowing that he was particularly attractive.

"You do know what I like to hear," she said with a wry twitch of her lips. Sherlock grinned, kissing her cheek lightly again before turning to John, who had fallen back on his military training to deal with his astonishment. He was standing straight, his shoulders squared, his bearing confident without being stiff or taut.

"Irene, I would like you to meet Doctor John Watson, recently returned to London from service in Her Majesty's forces in Afghanistan. John, Ms. Irene Adler."

Given her attire, Irene clearly hadn't been expecting unknown company; her pink silk kimono was wrapped loosely, her auburn hair was piled on her head. Wisps of fallen hair framed her face. But she took in her visitor's presence with aplomb and stepped forward to shake his hand.

Sherlock caught a moment of stunned hesitation from John but he recovered quickly so that the slight was barely noticeable.

"Doctor Watson, such a pleasure to meet you. I do so love a man in uniform."

At this, John grinned.

"If I'd known that, ma'am, I would have dressed appropriately."

Irene folded her arms loosely, her slender fingers resting on her biceps, tanned skin against dark silk. She sent an amused glance Sherlock's way.

"Sherlock is usually so diligent about ensuring proper dress for any situation," she murmured.

"Yes," John agreed with a smile in his voice. "He is."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Irene's smile widened. He sighed, shaking his head.

"I trust everything here is to your satisfaction?" he asked.

"For now," Irene replied. "Although the flight from Dublin was as tedious as it always is. I so much prefer the civility of travelling by train." She paused for small dramatic sigh. "Fewer crying babies or screaming children, fewer travellers who cannot figure out the simplest of regulations. Really, you need a company jet, Sherlock."

"So you always tell me," he murmured. "I did arrange for Mycroft's jet to fly you home. It was unavoidably in use today. No amount of coffee import restrictions could change that."

Irene's eyes glinted mischievously.

"Yes, I did hear about that," she commented. "How is your beloved brother?"

"Mycroft is Mycroft," Sherlock replied shortly. "He will always be Mycroft."

He completely ignored John rolling his eyes but Irene caught it and arched a perfectly shaped brow at the doctor.

"Have you have the pleasure of meeting Mycroft Holmes, Doctor?"

John hesitated a moment.

"Call me John, please," he replied. "And yes, I suppose you could say I have had that pleasure."

At this, Sherlock grinned. It was a dubious pleasure indeed. He made a mental note to introduce John to Sibyl – his mother was a far more likeable person and he strongly suspected she would like John. John would like her, of course; Sherlock could not actually remember meeting anyone who disliked his mother.

"You sent your new doctor to deal with your brother, Sherlock?" Irene asked, tsking disapprovingly. "A weighty assignment for so new an employee."

Sherlock shook his head.

"In Gabriel's absence, I have been dealing with Mycroft," he said and Irene raised both of her eyebrows in surprise at this. "John was simply there when Angela needed to meet with me. Mycroft found it necessary to accompany her."

Irene sighed and looked back at John.

"Mycroft and Angela at the same time? It's just as well that you are a former soldier, John. On their own, they are formidable people. Together?" She gave a light shrug and Sherlock repressed a roll of his eyes. Irene was no less intimidating than his brother or sister-in-law. Most of Sherlock's irritation with Mycroft stemmed from the overbearing attitude of an older brother. He strongly suspected that, had he been saddled with Irene Adler as a sibling, he would have felt the same way.

"They were both very pleasant to me," John said.

Irene smiled knowingly at him.

"Very diplomatic, Doctor," she said. "I imagine years listening to the instructions and opinions from superior officers has taught you quite a bit about tact."

John said nothing but gave her a blandly pleasant smile and Sherlock twitched his eyebrows up. The doctor was a better actor than he had previously believed. Irene was right: he would be accustomed to smoothing over his thoughts regarding his orders. Sherlock frowned slightly at this realisation, then decided he was far more adept at reading body language than any military office. He had not missed anything significant about John's behaviour.

"And I see you are taking his education very seriously," Irene commented, turning her gaze to Sherlock. He gave a slight noncommittal shrug. John would not replace Gabriel – that would take far too long and be entirely pointless – but it was beneficial for him to have some idea of what Sherlock's business entailed. It made it easier for him to anticipate what sort of patients he would have.

"I do hope you're not implying that you're part of John's education," he commented and Irene raised her eyebrows. "This is not a business visit for him. John is a fan of your work."

Irene's expression softened back into a genuine smile and she returned her gaze to John, who was actually blushing slightly.

"Oh, that is lovely," she said. "It is always wonderful to meet a fan."

Sherlock knew that wasn't entirely true; she certainly didn't enjoy meeting the ones who pestered her and asked incessant questions. She enjoyed meeting the ones like John, who could maintain dignity.

"He had the opportunity to see you perform live before you retired. An experience I am sorely lacking, I should point out."

Irene flashed him an amused look.

"Private performances are not enough, Sherlock?" she asked and he smirked at her. She returned her gaze to John. "Do you remember the show?"

"Of course I do," John replied in surprise. "_The Tsarina's Slippers_."

Irene's face lit up completely, transforming her from merely stunning to utterly radiant. John's eyes widened somewhat but Sherlock smiled. The doctor could not have given a better answer.

"That was my favourite," Irene said. "Such a wonderful, amazing cast. I've never worked with a better company in my life. Please tell me you saw us on an evening when I was performing with David Mackett."

John nodded, still looking stunned.

"Yes," he said, and Irene's smile grew more.

"He was brilliant. Oh, I'm delighted you remember that and that you saw him as well. He is one of the most talented singers I've ever worked with and an entirely enchanting person. His understudy was amazing, of course, but David – there's no comparison. I do miss him. I hope you enjoyed it."

John's eyes widened again.

"Of course I did," he said. "It was… phenomenal. That was the first time I'd ever been to a piece of proper theatre – I mean, something that wasn't a local performance or a school play or something."

"You are lucky here in London," Irene said. "So many opportunities. It's what brought me from Ireland in the first place."

John grinned.

"Lucky for us," he amended and Irene looked pleased. The sound of Sherlock's phone was momentarily startling, a small electronic trill interrupting the flow of conversation. He pulled it from his jacket pocket, sparing a quick glance at the number.

"Excuse me," he said and Irene nodded, unconcerned. She waved John into a chair as Sherlock strode down the hallway and into one of the two empty bedrooms in the suite. He could hear the sound of them chatting from the sitting room but he was far enough that they would not hear him if he kept his voice low.

"_Un moment_," he said and settled into one of the wingback chairs near the windows. "Yes, Charles?"

The familiar French voice overlaid the background murmur of two English voices, one of them tinted by a faint Dublin accent. Sherlock focussed his attention on what Charles was saying, nodding along to himself as his French lieutenant spoke. To anyone listening – and Sherlock was always aware of the possibility that Jim was listening – it was a rather dull report about finishing with the lawyers regarding buying a piece of disputed property from the French government. He could hear the genuine relief in Charles' voice. He had no more enjoyed dealing with the lawyers than Sherlock had. Less, probably, since he'd had to meet with them far more frequently.

But there were one or two mentions of Greece, oblique and indirect, worked into the conversation in such a way that they seemed to belong there. There was a mention of property in Lyon, too. Sherlock filed this all away for future reference; Charles would fill him in fully when he arrived on Monday. There hadn't been enough time for anything significant to occur, but Agent St. Jean was making some progress.

He was glad he hadn't been wrong about her. She was going to be extremely useful. And most likely problematic in her own way, but her contributions would outweigh any inconveniences. She was an intelligent woman. She knew when she could not win.

"Thank you," Sherlock said when Charles had finished with his report. "Excellent work."

Charles gave a small, dry chuckle that came through the phone as little more than a huff. Sherlock leaned his head back slightly against the chair and felt a smile twitching on his lips.

"I will see you Monday," Charles said.

"Yes, you will," Sherlock agreed. He rung off and sat in silence for a moment before John and Irene's voices drifted back in. He heard Irene's low laughter combined with John's chuckle and the smile twitched back onto his lips.

He closed his eyes, feeling oddly lightheaded for a moment. Turning his attention inward and examining himself, he could find no indications that he was getting ill. He almost never became ill – staying healthy was really just a case of mind over matter. There were no unexplained aches in his muscles, no warning soreness in his throat, no telltale headache.

He wrote it off as not having eaten yet and pushed himself back to his feet. He sat in the silence of the guest bedroom for several minutes, letting John and Irene enjoy their conversation. He was reluctant to pull John from something from which he was obviously taking pleasure.

Eventually he returned to the living room to collect John; he still had work to complete, after all. John looked happy to have had the opportunity to meet one of his idols more than he looked disappointed by the prospect of leaving. Irene bid them each a warm good-bye and Alexander saw them out the door. John was still grinning brightly, his brown eyes gleaming, when they got into the waiting car and pulled away from the hotel.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I took some artistic liberties with the performance of "The Tsarina's Slippers". It wasn't actually performed in the UK until 2004 but I imagine John went to see it in the late 90s (1998 or 1999). Of course, the 2004 performance wasn't starring Irene Adler... ;)

The kimono Irene is wearing can be found here: tiny. cc/ idher (only I imagine it in darker pink).


	50. Chapter 50

The contractors finished the last of their work Wednesday and then a team of cleaners descended on Jamie's new flat, scrubbing it top to bottom. After they left Friday evening, John and Jamie went down with Mrs. Hudson to see the finished product.

The flat was almost unrecognisable: where it had been dim and damp before, it was bright and clean and dry. The contractors hadn't changed the character of the flat even though they'd had to tear out all of the carpet and some of the flooring as well as strip down some of the walls. It had been replaced and repaired to match the original appearance insofar as possible, so, while largely new surfaces, it still had the air of a Victorian flat. They'd kept the fireplace and mantle but John could see that the firebox was clean and useable now. The new windows let in more light through their untarnished panes and the lighting fixtures had all been updated to provide more illumination. It was bright and cheery – a far cry from the dim and slightly closed space it had been before.

Jamie was grinning but John thought it was the look on Mrs. Hudson's face that made this all worth it. She was positively beaming, her face and eyes lit up as much as the new flat was. John found himself smiling at her expression and at the way she clapped her hands with unmasked delight.

Jamie's new furniture would be arriving the following afternoon but he had enough belongings in John's flat that they spent a few hours Friday evening putting things into boxes and trying to sort out who owned which kitchen utensils. John felt a pang of sadness at losing his flatmate, but Jamie would be right downstairs, so he didn't imagine it would be far different than it was at the moment. They were still in the same building – which was more than could be said for when they'd both been living in the halfway house. And Jamie would need his own flat come September anyway, when Tricia came home. John grinned when he thought of this and wondered if Tricia had any idea that she already had a place to live. He hadn't mentioned it to her, and he was pretty sure Jamie was keeping it as a surprise, too.

* * *

><p>Saturday morning they went to their first British Sign Language lesson. John was a bit apprehensive if only because he didn't know what to expect. He'd never imagined learning a second language at thirty-eight and he'd certainly never considered that it would be BSL.<p>

He wondered what Jamie thought of it. Most of the time, Jamie's cheery disposition never wavered, but John had seen it break. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to know he'd never speak again. To not be able to sing or laugh out loud. To have to type out all of his conversations – well, that was why they were learning BSL, so he wouldn't have to do that.

John also wondered what it would be like to be paralysed and still be able to walk. For a while, Jamie had attended a support group for paralysed army veterans but had stopped going abruptly. It had taken awhile for John to get the reason out him – because he didn't have spinal chord paralysis, he was being dismissed as not really injured by a couple of the other group members. The selfishness and absurdity had made John livid. They'd still be living in the halfway house at the time and it had struck John as extraordinarily unfair that other recovering vets with nowhere else to go would treat one of their own that way. John wondered if Jamie would find people in comparable situations at their BSL lessons – complete vocal chord paralysis was rare, but people suffering from partial paralysis would be fighting very similar battles.

They were taking the course through a local community college and John was glad to find there was a mix of people in the class, some hearing impaired students and their family members or friends, some people taking it to become BSL teachers themselves, some taking it for general interest. Jamie's scars drew curious looks when he and John settled themselves at a table. John heard whispered murmurs between two young women behind him and saw a flash of displeasure cross Jamie's features. The doctor twisted himself in his seat to face the two university-aged girls who were probably taking the course just because it seemed fun.

"He's a war vet," John said levelly. "And there's nothing wrong with his hearing."

Jamie glanced over his shoulder as well and arched an eyebrow at them, giving them a brief nod. Both girls looked appalled and dropped their eyes, biting their lips and muttering apologies. Jamie shot John an amused look before refocusing his attention when the instructor indicated they were going to start.

Afterwards, the girls stopped them on their way out, both of them looking bashful and chastened.

"Sorry," the braver one said, looking squarely at Jamie. "I – we didn't mean to insult you. Or your, um, partner."

Jamie blinked in surprise then began to laugh, his shoulders shaking with silent, helpless giggles. John sighed, rolling his eyes. The girls looked alarmed again but Jamie just shook his head, pointing at John.

"I'm not his partner," John explained wearily. "I'm his brother-in-law." It wasn't true, although when Tricia came home, it would be close enough. And it was more convincing than 'friend'.

"Oh," said the girl, then glanced at her own friend. "Well, um, sorry."

John arched an eyebrow at them and they practically scurried away. The two men watched them go, Jamie struggling to regain his composure. The mechanic pulled out his phone and sent John a text.

_Can you imagine? Tee would kill us both._

"At the same time," John replied.

_I could give you a great big kiss if you'd like._

John groaned.

"Please don't." Jamie flashed him a devilish grin and then sucked in a deep breath, his shoulders still shaking slightly. John folded his arms and tapped an index finger against his arm.

"As you were, sergeant," he said and Jamie smirked at him.

_You don't outrank me anymore._

"You know, I'm starting to miss the days when I did? Come on, let's go home."

_You need to blog about this._

"Oh, believe me," John said with a wicked smile. "I'm going to."

* * *

><p>Jamie's furniture arrived that afternoon and the two of them spent some time arranging everything to the mechanic's liking. He still didn't have everything he needed and they couldn't be bothered to move the boxes they'd haphazardly packed down the stairs that evening, so Jamie stayed the night in his current room again. John didn't mind – he did know how daunting it was to furnish flat from scratch. John knew his friend had agonised over the choices and pestered his sister for advice, until one day John finally asked him how picky Jamie thought Tricia was. After that, the decisions were easier. She wasn't going to criticise Jamie's choices. She'd be happy just to be back and have a home.<p>

"You don't have to impress her," John had pointed out with a snigger. "She already knows you. She's had plenty of opportunity to escape."

He'd managed to duck when Jamie had hurled a cushion at him.

He knew he'd be a bit lonely the first few days after Jamie had moved downstairs. John had entertained the idea of getting another flatmate but then had decided against it. He didn't want a stranger living in his space. It had worked with Jamie because they knew each other.

They spent the evening watching football, eating take out, and drinking beer. _Like proper bachelors_, John thought and grinned to himself. The next morning, Jamie went to Mass and John went to Gabriel's to finally clear the younger man to return to work. He accompanied that with a strong warning to Sherlock that Gabriel should be on shorter days than normal. Sherlock looked annoyed by the suggestion but relieved that Gabriel was allowed to work again. John had mixed feelings – he was glad that it came now, when Sherlock was meeting with his lieutenants, but he knew he was going to miss spending time with his boss. He tried not to note the way Sherlock's eyes focused on him during most of the visit, tried to tell himself it was only because John was the doctor and making the decisions.

Gabriel looked pleased by the prospect of going back to work, of bidding good-bye to some of the boredom that came along with recuperating. John was glad to see that the younger man looked a lot less tired, his green eyes brighter, more alert. John thought more time off would just be detrimental now. Gabriel needed something to do, even if that something was committing crimes. Inwardly, John sighed, reminded of how dubious his own job was.

John left them to talk about whatever it was crime bosses talked about – or to bicker like little children. He wasn't really sure. They could probably do both at the same time. He went home and did some chores until Jamie got back. They moved the rest of his belongings downstairs and Jamie went up to Mrs. Hudson's to invite her for tea and she insisted on making a casserole even though she was a guest. John didn't mind and knew Jamie didn't either – her cooking was far superior to either of theirs. John went out and got sherry for their landlady and beer for two of them while Jamie finished getting the flat set up enough for dinner.

Mrs. Hudson left before John did, but eventually the doctor kicked himself out and went back upstairs. Jamie had to work the following morning and, while John was technically on call, he was no longer needed to follow Sherlock around, so all he had to do was ensure he was up and ready to go out the door in case he was called. He made a note on his calendar to check on Gabriel Tuesday morning before the younger man went into work, to make sure he hadn't overdone it on his first day back.

_What's overdoing it for a master criminal? _John wondered as he changed out of his clothes and into his pyjamas. _Stealing something too expensive? Stealing too much? Planning too complicated a heist?_

He sighed to himself as he crawled into bed. The flat was oddly silent – even when Jamie had been upstairs and asleep, John knew there was someone else there. Now he was alone. It didn't feel lonely exactly – not yet – but it did feel strange. Like there was too much space. John snuggled down beneath his covers and ignored the sensation. He'd get used to having the flat to himself again soon enough.

He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to relax himself. Tomorrow, he would be back to his regular duties as a doctor. He wouldn't have to spend so much time with Sherlock, which would certainly help him get over this ridiculous crush or lust or whatever it was. John felt that if he saw his boss less, he'd eventually just forget what was so alluring in the first place. He could settle back into his old routines, give himself some time to stop being such a love-sick idiot and then maybe meet a nice woman. The prospects of doing so in London were a lot greater than in the army. He smiled sleepily to himself at the idea and nodded; it seemed like a good plan.

Tomorrow, things would go back to what passed for normal in his life.

* * *

><p>John awoke the next morning to a hammering on his bedroom door and suddenly Jamie was there, shaking him fully awake. John blinked and started, staring at his friend, trying to battle the confusion. He'd thought Jamie had moved into his own flat? But he still had a key, of course, for convenience and emergencies.<p>

"What?" he asked, finally registering the panic on his best friend's face, in his bright hazel eyes. Jamie's phone was pressed into his hands and John fumbled with it, trying to wake up enough to focus on the screen. When he finally read the news article, all remaining grogginess vanished with a sharp gasp.

There had been an explosion in Kabul near the base and, at the latest count, four British soldiers were reported dead.


	51. Chapter 51

The prospect of going back at work made Gabriel wake early like a child on Christmas morning. He rolled his eyes at himself as he checked the time – almost six in the morning. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been up that early since he'd been shot.

He picked up his phone with a yawn and checked the news. Any remnant of sleepiness vanished as he sat up fast, ignoring the warning twinge in his leg, and rang Sherlock's number. He hadn't anticipated starting his work day this early, but there was a chance Sherlock didn't know yet.

"Yes?" came a cool and alert voice. It was hard to tell if Sherlock had been sleeping or not. He could go from deeply asleep to fully awake in five seconds.

"There's been an explosion in Kabul near Souter," Gabriel said in a rush. "They're already reporting four British soldiers dead but aren't releasing any names."

There was silence for a fraction of a second, a pause that would be unnoticeable to anyone who didn't know Sherlock well. But Gabriel could almost feel the dread and denial coming through the phone.

"I will take care of it," Sherlock said curtly and rung off. Gabriel stared at his phone a moment then exhaled hard, trying to get himself to relax. He shifted himself out of bed, already far too awake for the early hour, and began his day.

* * *

><p>John stared at the phone's tiny screen, his mouth dry, his heart hammering hard, almost painfully, in his chest. He tried to get the words to disappear or rearrange themselves into something sensible. They stayed resolutely the same.<p>

He snapped his head back up to look at Jamie.

"Did you try calling her?" he demanded. He barely noticed that Jamie didn't bother with any sarcastic expressions, but just nodded quickly in return. For a moment, John was shaken by the thought that Jamie calling was almost useless – then it occurred to him that if Tricia picked up, she'd know what was going on and tell Jamie to get John.

Without thinking, he reached out and grasped his friend's wrist with one hand and dialled Tricia's number again with the other. In the near darkness of John's room, the two men focused hard on the phone, on the tiny, distant sound of ringing carried across continents.

"You have reached Tricia Remsen…"

John closed his eyes as he hung up then snapped them open and dialled again. After four rings, her voicemail picked up. Her familiar voice was jarring – too cheery and light, as if mocking the current circumstances.

He shook his head and tightened his grip on the phone.

"Okay," he said, opening his eyes, his voice feeling hollow in his throat. He licked his lips, trying to swallow against the dryness in his mouth, forcing calmness over the anxiety and adrenaline. "Okay. It's probably not –"

And he stopped in the face of Jamie's expression, of the tight terror he felt reflected in himself. They stared hard at each other for a moment. John could see the pulse jumping in Jamie's neck, just as accelerated as his own heartbeat.

Something clicked.

"I'll call Sherlock," he said. Sherlock had arranged for them to speak to Tricia, so he knew how to get through the official channels quickly. His brother was some sort of government person.

He tried to find his boss' phone number in the contact list then realised he was still holding Jamie's phone. John tossed it aside and grabbed his own. He could feel Jamie's eyes on him, narrowed, fierce, probably wondering why John had Sherlock's number programmed into his phone – but he didn't care.

Sherlock picked up before the first ring had even completed.

"Are you at home?" he demanded before John could draw a breath to speak.

"Yes," John replied mechanically.

"Stay there. I'm on my way. I'm working on it."

John pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it, then nodded slowly before realising Sherlock could not see him.

"Okay," he said woodenly. The call disconnected on the other end and John stared at his phone a moment longer, then looked up.

"He's on his way."

Jamie dislodged himself from John's grip and stepped away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, tilting his head back. He exhaled hard and the sound startled John so that he jerked and his phone tumbled to the floor.

"She's okay," he said, the words falling from numb lips. "She's got to be okay."

Jamie rounded on him fast, hazel eyes suddenly blazing, expression incensed. John started at his friend, surrounded suddenly by an angry, silent tirade. He could hear the Scottish accent that had no more sound, the clipped words, the thunder in Jamie's voice.

It amounted to: "You don't know that!" John understood that without understanding the words.

He nodded stiffly.

"Okay," he said, but in response to what, he was not certain.

* * *

><p>There was tea now, but it tasted of nothing. He burnt his tongue on the hot liquid but scarcely felt it. The caffeine did nothing but fray already tattered nerves. He glared at his phone, willing it to ring. It stayed frustratingly dark and silent.<p>

_Don't be stupid,_ Jamie told himself. _She's in surgery. She can't ring._

Seconds dragged by. She could be dead. He clamped down on that thought. She probably wasn't. He knew that. He knew the odds were low. He knew she probably hadn't been on patrol. He knew the work the doctors had to do when something like this happened.

He knew the odds didn't matter. He knew it could still be her.

He felt like he was trying to breathe in air that was too heavy and dense. Like a vice was wrapped around his chest, squeezing. Towing disabled vehicles out of live combat zones had not been this hard. Months in hospital hadn't been this hard. Knowing he'd never speak again had never once been this hard.

He could see her in surgery. He could see her dead in the wreckage of a street.

The buzz at the door startled them both so badly they jumped. Jamie spilt his tea on the counter and cursed silently, John managed to put his mug down with unsteady hands and let their boss in.

There was that look. John looked relieved, reassured; Holmes' business-like expression eased for a moment to something approaching warmth. They held each other's eyes a few seconds too long. For a moment, it dislodged the fear and Jamie narrowed his eyes, unheeded.

He'd always wondered about John. What bothered him was not was not John's overall preferences, but his specific preference for Sherlock Holmes. It was a bad choice.

He didn't want it here, now, invading the worry, making it worse. He didn't want to think about John getting himself hurt while trying not to think that Tricia might dead.

* * *

><p>"You assured me you'd have contact!" Sherlock snapped, unable to keep the edge of frustration from his voice. He was aware of the other two men in the flat – John standing near him, next to an armchair, James standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Tension radiated from them like heat but he ignored it.<p>

"I'm supposed to," Mycroft's cool voice said on the other end of the line. Sherlock glowered to himself, suppressing an angry retort. He could hear uncertainty transmuted into anger in his brother's voice. Mycroft was shaken and unhappy about it. "I'm attempting to relocate her."

He swallowed on a snarl, sucking in a deep silent breath instead.

"Try harder," he said.

"Sherlock, I assure you, I am doing everything I can."

"It is not good enough," Sherlock spat back.

"It's a warzone, Sherlock. A certain amount of chaos is involved, particularly in the aftermath of a bombing. You need to give me time."

He looked at John, who met his eyes with hope and trepidation. Sherlock gave his head a brief shake to indicate no news and saw the panic flare in John's features. He held up a hand, shaking his head again, and the doctor seemed to understand what Sherlock was indicating.

"Time is of the essence, Mycroft. I do not want Doctor Remsen's whereabouts to remain unknown in the wake of this incident." He didn't say Jim Moriarty's name, not here – he was displeased with the anxiety in John's features, in his brown eyes, in the set of his taut muscles. He had no desire to make it worse.

Mycroft understood the unspoken subtext.

"I will call you the moment I know anything," his brother assured him. Sherlock scowled but rang off before Mycroft could disconnect the call. He looked up at John and felt an unexpected stab of reluctance. This was not the worst news he could be delivering, but nor was it particularly good. John was waiting, locked in an uncertain limbo, and Sherlock had no information that would change that.

"They are looking," he said in a clipped tone. "My brother will update me as soon as new information is available."

* * *

><p>John felt his heart sink, felt Jamie's sink as well. He was surprised to find he was still upright – but Jamie was still standing and it felt wrong to be more worried than he was.<p>

He should call Harry. He should call his mother. He should call Ellie. He should call – John started inwardly as he realised that he almost thought he should call Tricia. He had his phone, though. He tried her number again, watching Sherlock watching him, feeling Jamie watching them both.

He shook his head when there was no answer.

_She's probably in surgery,_ he told himself firmly, trying to fix an image of her in her scrubs in his mind. Not covered in her own blood. Not on a gurney. Not under someone else's knife.

Had she tried to imagine the same when it had been him?

The thought made him dizzy and he swallowed against the sensation. But no – she had operated on him. She'd known.

They had no information on her.

The sound of Sherlock's phone nearly made John drop his own. A call back so soon could only mean one thing. He couldn't look at Jamie. He could not. Sherlock shook his head and John felt his chest constrict again.

"Gabriel," Sherlock answered, fastening John with a hard stare. John felt disoriented a moment before he understood the call had nothing to do with Tricia. Sherlock half turned away, standing in profile, pale skin almost iridescent against his dark hair and coat. He was still in his coat, John realised stupidly. Sherlock was nodding, inserting little "mm-hmms" here and there.

"No, take care of everyone else arriving today. Yes, please. No, we were meant to have lunch. Put her to work – she knows her way around London. Yes, yes. Yes. Thank you."

He rung off and John wondered if he should make a stab at hospitality. It seemed like an odd thought. Sherlock beat him to it.

"John, you should sit," he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. John blinked, surprised at the words, then at how much they sounded like a good idea. "And you, Jamie."

John obeyed without question. Jamie stayed where he was for a long moment before giving an aggravated sigh and dropping down onto the couch. The sound startled Sherlock so much that John saw him jerk his head up, eyes flashing to the mechanic. With numb shock, John realised that was probably the first time Sherlock had heard Jamie make any sound. He was so used to it – and to the memory of his friend's voice – that it was easy to forget that there were people who knew him only as a man who could not speak.

"You don't need to wear that," John said and Sherlock looked back at him, confused by the non sequitur. "Your coat. You don't have to keep it on."

Sherlock nodded and took off his long wool coat, hanging it up with a movement that looked like practiced comfort to John. Like he belonged there. John leant back in his chair, closing his eyes. He heard Sherlock's footsteps retreating into the kitchen, and when he next opened his eyes it was to see Sherlock standing in the archway, holding John's forgotten mug. Somehow, the warmth and normality of a morning cup of tea made everything seem more endurable.

Sherlock sat down in the other armchair and raised his eyebrows at the doctor. John stared back at his boss and settled in for the wait.


	52. Chapter 52

They waited.

John couldn't remember ever feeling tension quite like this before. It seemed to have expanded beyond himself and Jamie to become an entity of its own, permeating the air in the flat so that the atmosphere felt oppressive, stifling.

None of them moved. Jamie stayed lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, his expression torn between anger and helplessness. John understood; he felt the same way. It ate at him that there was nothing he could say that would not sound like a bland platitude, like a lie. He remained in his armchair, staring at his tea because it was either that or stare at Sherlock sitting across from him.

But he felt his boss' gaze on him and he looked up eventually, meeting those iridescent grey eyes. John didn't think he'd been imagining things anymore – not with the way Sherlock was looking at him now. Not given the fact that he'd come here as soon as he'd learnt about the bombing even though he obviously had a full schedule. He'd reassigned the work of dealing with his lieutenants to Gabriel and he was staying here.

It wasn't for Jamie, whom Sherlock hardly knew. It wasn't for Tricia, whom he didn't know at all.

John only wished the realisation had come at a better time.

Part of him wanted to launch himself at Sherlock, pin him into his armchair and kiss those ridiculously sensual lips. He wanted to know what Sherlock tasted like, what he felt like, what he sounded like when John touched him. He wanted to rip him out of that fancy suit. Sherlock was wearing the top two buttons of his shirt maddeningly undone as he always did and John wanted to pop the rest of them one by one, watching the silk fall away from pale skin. He wanted to taste everything he could, to go down on his knees and make Sherlock come undone for him. He wanted to throw caution to the wind and forget the decision he'd made fifteen years ago.

But not right now.

Not when the thought of being distracted for a moment meant the possibility of missing a phone call. Not with the knowledge that Tricia might be injured or dead. How could he do those things, how could he take any pleasure for himself, when he could so easily picture her lying brokenly on a stretcher?

With each flash of that image in his mind, he felt his heart constrict a little more.

Part of him wished Jamie weren't there, a larger part felt guilty about that. But John was torn between the need to wait and the need to find comfort where he could. He knew it was unwise to do so, though. The uncertainty, the adrenaline – they could lead to bad decisions.

He didn't think Sherlock was a bad decision. He should. He knew he should. The man was a master criminal, a thief, a liar, probably a murderer, not to mention _his boss._

Sherlock was still taking calls. Most were presumably from Gabriel given their tone, but they were in French so John had no idea what was being said. The doctor sighed inwardly and tried to finish his tea only to find it had gone cold. He set it aside. Sherlock's eyes darted from it to John with a questioning expression but John shook his head. He felt a rueful smile flash over his lips – any other morning, it would have been amazing to have Sherlock offering to make him more tea.

Right now, he just wanted the man's damn phone to ring.

Hours crept by.

_How long can this take?_ John asked himself. But he knew. He knew the chaos, he knew how hard it could be to track someone down in the wake of a bombing. He tried to ignore the treacherous part of his mind that added _especially if they're buried under rubble somewhere._ He set his jaw and noted the concerned look from Sherlock. John made himself look away, checking on Jamie, who was staring at his phone now as if watching it could make it ring.

At one point, Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen. John's eyes followed him and he saw Jamie's expression darken and wondered why. He realised he'd have to tell Jamie what was going on. Not now. But soon. The thought made him more tired than the endless waiting already had. He didn't want complications. He wanted a simple answer right now, that was all. Just the news that Tricia was alive and unharmed.

It shouldn't have been this difficult. It always was.

He heard Sherlock moving around in the kitchen and then smelled something cooking. A few minutes later, the younger man came back into the living room with two plates. He delivered one to Jamie, who looked surprised. John felt the same reaction flash through him when he realised it was beans on toast. He'd had no idea Sherlock could cook.

_I suppose it's not really cooking,_ he thought with a ghost of a smile. He wondered if it was the only thing Sherlock could make. He wondered if his boss had ever actually eaten this or if he'd just heard of it and managed to put together the whole two ingredients.

Sherlock gave him the second plate and John felt the brush of fingers against his own. Accidental, deliberate. A bit of both, he thought, with that dull desire flaring back up again. Sherlock's eyes flickered over John's face as if searching for something, then met his gaze, silently enquiring if he were all right. John gave a slight nod for lack of anything else to do. He ate in silence, aware that Sherlock was still watching him.

The sound of Sherlock's phone startled both John and Jamie so much that John was grateful he'd just put his plate aside. Sherlock's expression was back to cold and fixed – that wasn't Gabriel. He answered, keeping his eyes locked on John.

"Mycroft."

John held his breath. Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then frowned, anger flaring across his features.

"What do you mean?" he snapped, then paused again. "No, I'm perfectly aware of the meaning of the sentence, Mycroft! You said you always had contact. What – " He sighed and then snarled in frustration. Then he paused again, his expression frozen before pulling the phone away from his ear and giving it a glare so heated that John thought Mycroft Holmes must have felt it on the other end of the line.

Sherlock hit a key and held the phone up.

"Do say that again," he commanded coolly. John heard a sigh on the other end and then a weary-sounding voice reply:

"Captain Remsen is in surgery. Which is to say she is performing surgery, not that she is being operated upon. According to the rather scant information I have, she sustained some minor injuries at the bomb site during the rescue effort but was not involved in the bombing itself."

From his right, he heard a sharp sigh of utter relief and saw Sherlock glance briefly at Jamie again. John turned his gaze toward his friend to see Jamie was sitting up now, looking intently at Sherlock's phone, his expression pale but his eyes gleaming.

"What sort of injuries?" John demanded, the relief subsumed by the need for more information. Minor injuries could cover a lot, especially for a doctor who might be more inclined to ignore them in order to help others.

"I don't know, Doctor Watson. I'm assured they are negligible and are not preventing her from doing her duties."

"Have one of your people available to her with a phone when she's finished operating," Sherlock ordered. "And find your woman on the ground."

"We are looking," Mycroft sighed and Sherlock switched the phone from speaker, putting it back to his ear.

"Look harder, Mycroft," he snapped, an edge of ice in his voice. "I expect more efficiency from you, warzone or not." He paused and rolled his eyes. "Fine. Thank you. Good bye."

He rung off and looked up, meeting John's gaze again. John held it, seeing more there than he ever had before. He dropped his head into his hands, shuddering out a sigh of relief.

"Oh my god," he managed, feeling – almost hearing – Jamie mirror the sentiment. He managed to look over at his friend to see Jamie with his face upturned toward the ceiling, eyes closed, as if delivering a genuine prayer of thanks.

"She will call as soon as she is able," Sherlock assured them, eyes flickering sideways to include Jamie in the comment, then back to John. John met his gaze again and managed a nod. Any more than that seemed like too much suddenly and he was drained. Hours of anxiety had poured out in seconds and he wanted to collapse, wanted to laugh or weep or jump or just sit in the overwhelming relief.

"Thanks," John said. His voice sounded weaker but somehow more intense to his ears. Sherlock simply nodded.

"Of course," he replied as if it wouldn't have occurred to him not to do this. John felt a flutter of surprise and then something else – pleasure – at the idea that his boss would do this for him. He wanted to grasp those long-fingered hands and kiss them but he was too tired and Jamie was there, looking back at John now, that same complete relief mirrored in his features.

"I have to go now," Sherlock said carefully, as if testing thin ice. He was watching John cautiously, judging reactions. John felt his lips twitch once into a small smile.

"All right," he replied. He felt something settle in him and it felt like contentment, acceptance. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>Once back at his office, Sherlock shut the door and sat behind his desk with his chair turned toward the windows and his long legs extended in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He put his phone on his desk within reach and tugged absently on his lower lip, lost in thought.<p>

He scowled when his phone rang again and dealt with Mycroft's update. They had located Captain Sarah Watson who had sustained more serious but non life-threatening injuries during the rescue operation. Mycroft adopted his typical overbearing attitude once more when Sherlock voiced his displeasure regarding this. Surely one of Mycroft's highly trained agents should be able to manage herself better than this? He endured a condescending explanation about the nature of bombing sites and the hazards that faced first responders. Sherlock considered simply hanging up while his brother was in mid-sentence but refrained. This sort of information was valuable, particularly now. He was woefully unaware of what went on in warzones and for twenty years, he had been satisfied with that ignorance. Now he felt it was costing him.

He would have to make a point of moving his game into Afghanistan and possibly Iraq. Jim had established networks there. Sherlock smiled slightly at that thought after he'd rung off with Mycroft. He'd put Gabriel to work on assessing how to best infiltrate and weaken those so that he could ultimately take over some of them and watch the others collapse.

He fiddled with his phone, wishing he could pass off the need to speak with Mycroft to his partner. That was, after all, part of Gabriel's job and now that the younger man was back at work, it seemed only fair that he should do it. But he was currently engaged taking care of the lieutenants arriving from Germany, Spain and the Ukraine – as well as dealing with Irene – and would not have time for more work.

Sherlock scowled to himself. He would see to it that Gabriel resumed his typical duties as quickly as possible. Sherlock had endured far too much contact with his brother recently. It left him feeling jumpy and aggravated, more so than normal. He put this down to the slow build up of irritation over the past several weeks. He had done his best to keep his patience because Mycroft _was_ being valuable in obtaining information about Jim and in ensuring that Doctor Remsen stayed relatively safe in Afghanistan. And because his mother would give him a Look if she suspected he was being obstinate.

The fact that she could do so over the phone from Buckinghamshire struck him as entirely unfair. He felt his lips twitch at the thought of her ability to make her displeasure known without so much as a single word. It was a valuable skill, one that he had learnt from her through careful study.

He paced his office for a bit trying to shake the unsteady sensation, but it would not abate. It was further aggravated when Mycroft called back with an update on the situation in Afghanistan. Apparently none of the dead soldiers had been in John's old unit. Sherlock wondered why he felt such a profound relief at that – he did not know those who had died and likely John had not, either. It had nothing to do with him. His primary concern was Doctor Remsen's welfare – and that only to ensure that his physician was able to maintain a high quality of work and not succumb to petty emotional distractions.

Sherlock flopped back into his chair, chewing on his lower lip, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. Bored after less than a minute, he turned his gaze to the view outside again, looking out over the grey waters of the Thames. He ought to work – he knew he ought to work – but the unsettled feeling was distracting him.

_Mycroft,_ he told himself firmly, reaching out to spin his phone absently on his desk. _It's because of Mycroft._

But he felt as though he were missing something. He growled at himself, displeased that his own mind was intent on subverting him.

A knock on his door startled him slightly and made him glower – he was unused to being surprised in such a manner. Sherlock composed his features in the moments before Tina let herself in, giving him one of her typical warm smiles.

"Sir, Gerald is waiting downstairs."

Sherlock frowned slightly, then remembered why Gerald was awaiting him. He nodded, pushing himself easily to his feet, tugging lightly on his suit jacket.

"Of course. Tell him I will be down momentarily."

* * *

><p>The ride to Heathrow was longer than usual given the evening traffic. Sherlock sat in the back of the car, watching absently out the window as the hum of the motor drained some of the odd tension he'd been carrying all day. Despite the busy time of day and the intermittent rain that had been plaguing the area all day, Charles' flight arrived on time. Sherlock greeted him with a perfunctory kiss on each cheek as Gerald took the Frenchman's luggage.<p>

The driver brought the bags up to the flat as Charles moved with assured ease through the living room and out onto the balcony. Sherlock put a bottle of the champagne Charles had brought on ice and joined him outside. The sun had set, leaving the air with a deep chill, but the rain had stopped and it was not entirely unpleasant. Charles was smoking contemplatively but glanced over when Sherlock joined him to give one of his dark, knowing smiles.

Holding his cigarette between two long fingers, Charles pulled another from his pocket and put it between his lips. Sherlock smiled at the effortless balance of the burning cigarette and the lighter, watching the small orange glow catch as Charles inhaled deeply. He pinched the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, inhaled again, then passed it to Sherlock. Charles leant his head back, drawing a long arc with his neck, and exhaled with a faint smile on his lips.

They smoked in silence for awhile, leaning against the balcony's railing, looking out over the city that stretched out in patches of bright orange light and deep shadows.

Sherlock enjoyed the companionable silence, aware that he felt settled and at ease for the first time that day. The cigarette helped, as did the fact that it had now been over three hours since he'd spoken to his brother. The thought cheered him up slightly and he chuckled quietly, a low sound in the darkness.

"_Quoi?_" Charles asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"Nothing," he replied. Charles snorted softly but smiled.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked. Charles looked over at him and arched a dark eyebrow.

"_Non_. I ate before I left. One last opportunity to avoid the swill you English call food."

Sherlock made a derisive sound at the back of his throat.

"You never have anything but the best French cuisine, even here," he pointed out. Charles grinned at him, his dark eyes dancing in the dim light spilling out from the living room. He shrugged one shoulder and finished his cigarette, flicking the butt absently past the balcony railing. It arched as a glowing ember for a moment, then vanished.

"Champagne?" Sherlock suggested instead.

"Absolutely," Charles agreed.


	53. Chapter 53

**A/N:** this chapter rated M.

* * *

><p>Charles refilled Sherlock's glass deftly, letting the last few drops fall from the bottle. He sat back, sipped his own champagne, and eyed Sherlock with a familiar thoughtful look in his dark brown eyes.<p>

Sherlock sat forward and kissed him.

There was the briefest fraction of a moment before Charles was kissing back, the sensation so familiar and so welcome that Sherlock felt an unaccustomed wave of relief pass through him. Charles tasted of champagne and cigarettes and Sherlock heard the faint clink as he set his champagne flute aside. Sherlock nipped his lower lip once, twice, and felt Charles' mouth open for him.

He caught the soft moan and swallowed it, shifting again, moving closer, hands finding their way to Charles' waist, tugging the white silk shirt from his trousers. Charles' fingers laced into Sherlock's curls, pulling lightly, tangling into the strands at the base of his skull before running down the back of his neck, drawing him even closer.

They broke apart a moment then pushed forwards, lips moving together, and Sherlock felt Charles' fingers slipping the buttons open on his shirt, the sudden change in temperature and the sensation of fingertips against his skin making his nerves blaze. He ran his hands up Charles' back, feeling the shift and twitch of muscles beneath the silk as he did so, and combed his fingers through Charles' dark hair. The sensation was so utterly familiar, so much a habit that he was surprised it had been three and a half months.

It felt magnificent – it always had, with Charles. The remnants of the inexplicable tension he'd been carrying all day fell away with his shirt and when Charles pulled away to rest it over the back of the sofa on top of their suit jackets, he couldn't help but let his lips twitch into a smile.

"Come here," Charles murmured and Sherlock did, kissing him again and tracing the outline of his body, across Charles' shoulders and down, finding buttons and slipping them openly easily. An unconscious movement, a well-practiced one, the sensation of Charles' tongue against his brushing the backs of his teeth and flicking over his lips a more important distraction.

And then Charles' lips were on Sherlock's neck, his tongue darting out on the pulse point to taste, and Sherlock groaned again, dropping his head back, fisting his hands into the open shirt. Charles nipped his way up to Sherlock's ear and Sherlock managed to catch him in a kiss again, shifting himself, pulling back slightly and Charles understood, pushing him down onto the sofa. He pulled away again, dark eyes nearly black, bright and gleaming.

He smiled wickedly and there was a world of promise in there. Sherlock moaned, reaching for him, but Charles slipped past his grasp, catching his ear again, and Sherlock arched his neck, giving as much access as he could. Lips trailed down his neck, sucking and nipping and Sherlock knew he'd have marks, but that had never mattered, not with Charles. And it was winter. _Scarves_, he thought inanely.

He moved his legs, pinning his lover loosely and running his hands back into dark hair, fingers combing over and over. Charles chuckled and the sound against Sherlock's skin shot pleasure straight to his groin – he gasped, closed his eyes, used his hold on the hair to pull lips to lips. Sherlock's fingers tightened and held Charles in place, shuddered as hands moved lower, down his chest, down his stomach to his waist. The buckle belt was undone dexterously, easily, loosened and released.

Sherlock sighed as Charles pulled away again, giving him another of those knowing French smiles.

"Mm," Charles purred and Sherlock shuddered faintly. Charles chuckled again, dropping his head back down, feathering light kisses on Sherlock's bare chest, moving downward. Sherlock snapped his eyes back open, fingers still in his lover's hair, swallowing hard and trying to breathe. Sherlock loosened the hold with his legs and Charles shifted more easily, tracing the skin with his lips, his tongue his teeth.

He reached the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and raised his head again, dark brown eyes meeting grey ones and Sherlock gasped, nodding. Charles' lips twitched in a smirk, his hands ghosting over Sherlock's hips, down his thighs. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep his hips from bucking, unable to stop the moan when he felt Charles undo the button with his teeth.

The familiar tightness only made the sensation of Charles unzipping his flies with his teeth even more exquisite and Sherlock moaned again, unable to keep his hips from moving this time. Charles laughed softly and the sound made it so much better, but those beautiful hands were holding him lightly, keeping him still. Sherlock clenched his hands in Charles' hair, twisting his own head back and forth.

"Charles," he whispered – he wasn't begging, he was clear on that. Just asking.

The only reply was more quiet laughter as Charles mouthed his erection through his trousers and Sherlock moaned again, rocking his hips. Charles used the motion to tug his trousers down and Sherlock kicked them off, heedless of the clumsiness of the motion, feeling Charles' hands brush over his legs to help him.

Now he was only in his shorts and socks and his lover still fully clothed. The thought sent another jolt of pleasure straight through Sherlock and he sat up fast, startling Charles but not quite dislodging him, grasping his face and pulling him back into a kiss. He forced the other man backwards enough to free himself so that he could stand, dragging Charles with him. The one inch difference in their heights had always made this ideal – for a man Sherlock's height, this did not go unappreciated.

He made fast work of the silk shirt, letting it drop to the couch, but Charles had his hands before they could undo those grey wool trousers, lacing their fingers together, keeping him in a kiss. Sherlock focused on devouring his mouth, their tongues stroking.

"Not here," Sherlock managed when they had to breathe and Charles nodded. Sherlock caught him in another kiss and stepped backward, disentangling one hand, sliding it around Charles' waist, across the smooth, bare skin to the small of his back to keep him where he was, tugging him along. He pulled them toward his bedroom and stopped with an abrupt gasp when he felt Charles' fingers in the waistband of his shorts. Sherlock kicked them away, toed off his socks and growled, pushing his lover against the wall, dropping his head to latch onto Charles' neck, stripping him the rest of the way. Charles stepped smoothly out of his clothing and Sherlock felt those hands running up his back, into his own hair.

"Come," Sherlock ordered and Charles chuckled but Sherlock pulled away, grasping his hands, pulling him into the bedroom. They tumbled onto the bed, Charles managing to get the upper hand for a second before, with a grin, Sherlock pulled him into another kiss and flipped him over. Charles barked a laugh and they became a tangle of limbs and mouths, the duvet bunching and wrinkling underneath them. Sherlock grinned again when Charles moaned and almost went limp at the stroke of a hand, then gasped when his lover managed to reverse their positions, snagging Sherlock's wrists and holding them above his head, his weight pinning them to the mattress.

They pulled apart and Charles gave a quick, questioning look before kissing him again. Sherlock kissed back, managing a single nod. Yes, this was fine, perfect, brilliant. He pinned Charles with his legs again, this time more tightly, rocking his hips against his lover's, groaning when Charles did the same.

Charles pulled away and Sherlock managed to open his eyes. He was being watched by a mischievous expression that made him shudder and the slight darkening of Charles' eyes told him that hadn't gone unnoticed. His eyes were almost completely black now, his pupils blown and wide, and Sherlock could see the pulse in his neck jumping, heating his face and warming his skin. He nipped at it lightly, quickly, and Charles moaned, arching his head back. Sherlock took the opportunity to suck and nibble, making marks of his own, feeling Charles' quick breathing and heartbeat against his skin.

He was dislodged into a demanding kiss and returned it, flexing his fingers, trying to shift his arms, but Charles kept him pinned there and raised his head again, lips moist and swollen, the same playful glint in his eyes.

"Cuffs?" he asked.

Sherlock moaned. He swallowed hard, trying to think past the sudden haze of the desire that single word had caused. He licked his lips and saw Charles' eyes follow the motion greedily.

"Same place as always," Sherlock managed.

Charles grinned and his expression was so full of promise that Sherlock wondered how long he'd last. He shuddered again and his lover released him momentarily, shifting away just long enough to open the drawer on the bedside table.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** No yelling at your author. Or at Charles. It's not his fault. Plus he's really sexy. It's not as bad as it seems... I promise.

**Update:** there is art for this chapter! It's pretty much SFW. It can be found here: tinyurl. com/ 6v8at Thanks to the lovely double-negative means yes for this gem!


	54. Chapter 54

"Hello and I'm all right," the tired voice on the other end of the line said.

John dropped his head into his hands and heard Jamie echo his relieved sigh. He closed his eyes and pressed his intertwined fingers against his forehead, focusing on the sensation as a means of grounding himself before looking up again. He had to do the talking and he knew Jamie wouldn't want him to wait.

"Define all right," John said and Jamie raised his head from the back cushion of the chair.

There was a faint snort on the other end of the line.

"Some cuts and bruises and some stitches in a few places. Nothing serious and nothing that would keep me from working. I'm _fine_. Believe me. There are a lot of people worse off here but I didn't see anyone I know on my table. Captain Watson here is the one who took a bad fall in the debris. I just sort of stumbled a bit."

John frowned, meeting Jamie's equally puzzled expression. They both refocused on the phone as John leant forward somewhat.

"You do know I was discharged, right?" he asked. "And that I'm in London? Do you have a concussion?"

Tricia snorted lightly.

"Very funny, Johnny. I mean Captain Sarah Watson." There was a brief hesitation before she added: "You know, my bodyguard?"

John's eyes flashed up to Jamie's again, widening as his friend's narrowed.

"Your bodyguard?" John repeated.

"Yeah," Tricia replied. "Wait, what? He didn't tell you?"

"Who didn't tell us what?"

"Your boss. He had his brother assign someone to keep an eye on me. Her name is Sarah Watson. She's supposed to make sure nothing happens to me while I'm here."

John stared at Jamie who stared right back at him, both of them stunned into temporary immobility.

"You – Sherlock gave you a bodyguard?"

"Yeah. I thought you knew."

John shook his head, refocusing on the phone, shock pinning him to his chair. He swallowed hard, his head swimming.

He wondered if Sherlock had been waiting for him to figure it out this whole time. The man was a genius, he must know. Maybe he'd just been letting John sort through it in his own time, to wind his way toward understanding. He let out a slow breath, feeling stunned.

_All this time,_ John thought. _All the things he's been doing. The MI5 conference call. Dinner with Harry. Meeting Irene Adler. This. God, Watson, you're a moron for not calling it sooner._

"And her name is Sarah Watson?" he managed, forcing himself to concentrate on the conversation because Tricia was there and talking to them and they'd spent an agonising day wondering if she was even still alive.

"Yes, but no relation unless you're related to a Thomas Watson."

John snorted softly and Jamie's lips split into a grin.

"I could be," he said. "It's probably only slightly less common than John Watson."

He could nearly picture Tricia rolling her eyes and the image made him smile. The idea that she had someone looking out for her was an overwhelming relief. And not just anyone, either, but one of Mycroft Holmes' people. Having met the man once, John had an inkling of what he could do.

And Sherlock had arranged all of it.

_Tomorrow_, he decided. Tomorrow he was going to pay Sherlock a visit and give him a proper thank you.

* * *

><p>The next morning, John stopped at Gabriel's first, because it was on the way and the doctor in him wanted to ensure that the younger man's first day back had not been too taxing, particularly since Sherlock had passed a fair amount of work off to him. But Gabriel was in good spirits – he looked rested and was smiling, his green eyes bright. John was glad that his assessment had been correct; Gabriel had needed the return to work rather than more rest at that point.<p>

John checked Gabriel's injury and was pleased to see how well it was healing. In fact, the week of rest with his girlfriend's visits before going back to work seemed to have done wonders for him. The shadows that had clung to the edges of his features following the incident with his brother had vanished and he looked his age again.

Satisfied with Gabriel's condition and his progress, John wrapped up, wished him a good day, and left his flat. In the corridor, he lingered by the lift, steeling himself. But the idea wasn't as terrifying as it should have been, and he found himself smiling as he hit the call button to take him up to the seventh floor.

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke early and lay still for a few minutes, enjoying the silence that was accented only by Charles' slow breathing before disentangling himself expertly from the sheets and warm body next to him. He slipped into his pyjamas and dressing gown and wandered through his flat to the kitchen, ignoring the mess that had been made the previous night. As he made himself a morning cup of coffee, the contentment brought on by sleep slid away and he began to felt unsettled again. Sherlock scowled to himself – it was scarcely fair that Mycroft's presence could make itself known in the privacy of his own flat some fifteen hours after he'd last spoken to his brother.<p>

He let himself onto his balcony and lit a cigarette before sinking into a chair. It was nowhere near warm enough to be outside, but the cool air let him focus on the acrid tastes of his morning so far. He smoked languidly, savouring every hit, and realised he'd have to shower thoroughly before he went down to see Gabriel. The younger man was happy to maintain the falsehood that Sherlock didn't smoke at all. Gabriel had mostly succeeded in making him quit, but one had to have some vices.

And it certainly helped ease the sense of unbalance that had been plaguing him since the day before. Sherlock smiled as he exhaled a stream of smoke between his lips. He thought perhaps he should tell Mycroft that his presence could be tempered by cigarettes. Mycroft had always despised him smoking, which Sherlock suspected had less to do with the habit and more to do with simply disapproving of everything he did.

He finished the cigarette and sipped his coffee contemplatively, watching the sky lighten in the east, before dragging himself inside to shower and dress. Charles was still asleep, face half buried in his pillow, a shock of messy dark hair against the fine white linen. Sherlock checked himself in the mirror, tilting his head back and examining the bruises on his neck. No one would comment on them – not if they valued their jobs. Although it was highly likely Irene would smirk.

He left Charles sleeping and headed toward the door with the intention of heading down to see Gabriel, when a knock at the door surprised him. Sherlock checked the peephole, expecting his young partner, but was surprised to find John Watson waiting in the corridor instead – smiling, so presumably he'd spoken to Doctor Remsen in Afghanistan and was satisfied that she was well, but also tense, jittery – nervous?

He opened the door and smiled.

"Good morning, John," he said and John smiled back at him, one of those disarmingly honest grins.

"'Morning, Sherlock."

"Come in," Sherlock said, stepping back and letting the doctor in. He was carrying his medical bag and had presumably been to see Gabriel before coming here. "Everything is all right, I trust?"

"Yes, brilliant," John said with another smile that Sherlock returned with one of his own, albeit slightly questioningly.

"Coffee? Tea?" Sherlock enquired, leading John through the flat.

"Tea would be fantastic," John said, and Sherlock thought he caught a hint of nervousness in the doctor's voice. He frowned slightly. What could John have to be nervous about? He'd been in Sherlock's flat before and if something was wrong with Gabriel's injury, Sherlock would have heard about it by now. Could he still be worried about his friend in Kabul? But she was fine. Mycroft had ensured it.

He waved John toward the living room and had turned to head into the kitchen when he heard the doctor's footsteps stop abruptly. Sherlock turned back with a frown and saw John staring at the mess and at Charles standing in the archway from the corridor, wrapped in Sherlock's dressing gown, watching John curiously in return.

* * *

><p>The clothing strewn about the living room would have been indication enough. John couldn't imagine Sherlock was one to treat his clothing like that if he had simply been changing for the evening – he was far too meticulous about the way he looked. The doctor swallowed hard, not quite able to tear his eyes from the dark eyed stranger watching him from across the room.<p>

He felt pinned, could feel his fingers tighten around his medical bag. Desperately, he tried to relax, fighting for any hint of his arm training to reassert itself, to let him take control and step away from his emotions so that he could assess the situation calmly.

"Good morning," Sherlock said amiably and John's gaze finally broke, flickering back to his boss. Then he noticed them – the bright marks that peppered Sherlock's neck, vivid against his pale skin. The other man had a few of his own, too, and a fading bite mark evident where his neck met his shoulder, not quite covered by the dressing gown that John would have bet anything was Sherlock's.

"Charles," Sherlock said, "Doctor John Watson, the new physician. John, Charles Chauvière."

And that was it, John realised. No titles for Chauvière despite the fact that he was Sherlock's lieutenant in France. No need to identify what he was – that was obvious. More than obvious.

John inhaled silently against a dizzying pang of nausea.

_Stupid_, he told himself. _Stupid, stupid._

Gabriel had said that he and Sherlock weren't a couple.

He'd never said that Sherlock was single.

_And why would he have?_ John asked himself. _I wasn't asking._

Chauvière gave him a brief, evaluating look, then stepped forward, all easy grace and confidence, and extended a hand. He smiled and John felt himself unbalanced again.

_Of course,_ he thought dully. _Of course. Look at him. He's gorgeous._

"Doctor Watson," Chauvière said with a smooth, polished French accent. "_Enchanté."_

John understood that as a meaningless pleasantry but he shook the other man's hand, finally finding the grounding his training had drilled into him, and smiled back.

"Pleased to meet you," he agreed. It had the bitter taste of a lie and he hoped neither man noticed. Chauvière flashed his smile again and John felt sick. What had he been thinking, even considering the possibility? Of course Sherlock had someone like him – tall, dark haired, stunning. And enough of a contrast to turn heads. Evenly tanned skin against pale, dark eyes against light, so very French where Sherlock was so very English. Even in the dressing gown, he radiated an air of wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.

And John felt dull in his jumper and trousers, with his light brown hair and brown eyes. He would have felt dull even in one of the suits Sherlock had had made for him. Against the two of them, he was average and unremarkable.

_Just a doctor hired to do his job,_ he told himself.

"Coffee?" Sherlock asked, startling John back to the present, but his boss was looking across the room at Chauvière. At his partner.

"_Oui_," the other man replied.

"And your tea, of course, John," Sherlock said. John found the ability to move, to turn almost casually and glance over his shoulder.

"Actually, don't worry about it. I need to get back to my flat soon – I promised Mrs. Hudson I'd help her with some chores today." He hadn't and he was glad – he was going to lock himself in his flat for hours until at least the worst of the embarrassment faded. "But I wanted to stop by and thank you – from Jamie, too – for taking the time yesterday to make sure Tricia was all right."

Sherlock gave him another friendly smile.

"Of course," he said and John felt himself reeling internally.

_But why? _he asked himself. _Why does he do these things?_

Then:

_Why not? Probably because he can. Probably because he likes to know that he can. And that's it. That's all._

"I'm glad she's safe and well," Sherlock continued.

"Safe enough," John said mechanically.

"Mm," Sherlock replied noncommittally and John steeled himself.

"Thank you again. Oh, and Gabriel is fine. Don't give him too much more work for another week or two, but – so far, so good."

At this, Sherlock looked genuinely pleased.

"I should get going," John said, hoping Sherlock wouldn't derail his departure with some inane question or demands to know more about Gabriel's progress. But his boss simply nodded pleasantly. "Call me if you need anything. Nice to meet you, Mr. Chauvière," he added.

"And you," the other man replied. John kept himself calm through effort. It was hardly Chauvière's fault that John had come to all the wrong conclusions.

_Hardly Sherlock's either_, he told himself firmly.

He was more than a little grateful when the door to Sherlock's flat shut again behind him and he was enveloped in the silence of the common corridor.

* * *

><p>Charles gave him a pensive look when Sherlock returned from letting John out. Sherlock headed into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee. He considered tea for himself but had no desire to do more work than necessary. Any sort of cooking was a tedious chore and he had people paid quite well to do it for him.<p>

A few moments later, Charles joined him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He accepted the cup that Sherlock passed to him and closed his eyes, inhaling appreciatively. Sherlock sipped his own coffee, enjoying the silence and the faintly bitter aroma.

"You are aware that I remain uninterested in any sort of personal complications?" Charles asked.

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, displeased by the question.

"Are you concerned that I have changed my mind?" he enquired.

Charles said nothing, but held Sherlock's gaze levelly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, scowling. He was displeased his lover had raised the issue at all – it had been agreed upon twelve years previous and he had no intentions of altering it. He had precisely what he wanted from Charles – an intelligent and competent lieutenant to oversee his operations in France, an associate in whom he could trust, a lover who knew his body and what he wanted and a man who had no desire to inconvenience their relationship with emotional entanglements.

"Perhaps not," his lover finally conceded.

Sherlock gave a curt nod. There was no need for things to change. He felt uneasy again and dismissed it – he was not about to allow the sensation to derail him again today.

"Shower?" Charles enquired, arching an eyebrow.

"I need to go speak with Gabriel," Sherlock replied. "Take your time."

Charles nodded and Sherlock finished his coffee. He set the mug vaguely near the sink – the cleaner would deal with any dishes – and went down to see his young business partner.


	55. Chapter 55

Gabriel was surprised to hear Sherlock's distinctive knock at his door. He pulled it open, before stopping and staring at the sight.

"Good morning," Sherlock said and breezed past him. Gabriel managed to move enough to not be jostled but didn't follow, causing Sherlock to pause and turn back to him with a quizzical look. His eyes flashed aside for a moment, noting the still-open door, and Gabriel pushed it shut without thinking about it. He frowned, trying to convince his brain that his eyes were playing tricks, that he was not really seeing the marks on Sherlock's neck, the faint smirk that clung to the edges of his features.

"Problem?" Sherlock enquired.

Gabriel just kept staring.

"Oh really, I did knock. And it's obvious by the state of your clothing, your appearance, your smell, and the lack of anyone else emerging to greet me that Sandra is not here."

Gabriel opened his mouth and shut it again.

"Right," he managed. "She's not."

_Did John spend the night?_ he wondered, startled by the sudden thought. _He was here pretty early._

Then he remembered Sherlock telling not to worry about arrangements for Charles' arrival the previous day. That Sherlock himself would take care of that himself.

_Oh my god_, Gabriel thought. _He didn't._

But he recognised the way Sherlock looked – the faint gleam in his expression and the bruises on his neck.

"But – " Gabriel started, trying desperately to get his mind to catch up.

"I haven't interrupted anything personal so I fail to see what the issue is," Sherlock sniffed. "Are you going continue standing there or would you rather sit down?"

Gabriel didn't move.

"Charles?" he managed. Sherlock stared at him, grey eyes mildly puzzled.

"What about Charles?" he asked.

"Sherlock, you – I mean – look at you! You might as well be wearing a sign that says 'damn good shag'!"

Sherlock gave him another long look, this one a little harder.

"I was unaware that you disapproved of my choice of lover," Sherlock said, his voice taking on a cool hint that Gabriel clearly recognised as a warning. "Certainly you've never voiced any concerns in the past eight years."

Gabriel shook his head quickly.

"Not me," he said. "But – Sherlock – what about John?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly and frowned questioningly.

"I admit he seemed somewhat surprised to meet Charles but I can hardly be held accountable for his reactions or the timing of his visit. Should I plan my encounters around when other people may unexpectedly stop in?"

Gabriel's mouth fell open.

"He – he went up to your flat?" he managed. John hadn't mentioned he was going to. Gabriel pressed himself more firmly against the wall, fighting the urge to put his right leg down. He needed to sit because he was getting uncomfortable but he doubted his ability to move right now.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

_Oh god,_ Gabriel thought.

"He wished to thank me for securing information about Doctor Remsen yesterday – and to update me on your progress, of course."

Gabriel managed to shake his head once. John's visit had had nothing to do with him. Sherlock glared at him, then exhaled an irate sigh.

"I fail to see what the problem is, Gabriel. You look like a startled fish."

Gabriel shut his mouth fast, anger flaring through him. He'd heard Sherlock refer to Sebastian Wilkes that way and he was damned if he was going to be placed in the same category as that insufferable banker. The anger drained, though, leaving complete confusion in its wake.

_Oh my god,_ he realised abruptly. _He doesn't know? How could he not know?_ His eyes flickered over Sherlock's face, searching for some hint that his boss was having him on. Sherlock glared back, genuinely annoyed.

Of course he didn't know. Of course_._ Because Sherlock had dealt with people being romantically interested in him before, but he'd never felt it himself. He'd always insisted he wasn't concerned with emotional entanglements and, up until now, he'd succeeded in keeping himself removed from that. He understood how to like people, yes. He even understood how to love people – Gabriel had no doubts that Sherlock genuinely loved him, and Sibyl, and Angela, and David, among others. He'd probably even admit to it, too, if pressed.

But he'd never even considered the possibility of falling in love with someone or what that might feel like. In twelve years with Charles, Gabriel knew neither man had thought of the possibility because it was not what they wanted. They had settled into a comfortable and uncomplicated routine and they were both satisfied with it.

Then along came John Watson who had blindsided Sherlock so thoroughly that he couldn't even see it_. _

"Sherlock," Gabriel started, then licked his lips. Sherlock was still glaring at him, arms folded. "Sherlock, you know that you're by far the most intelligent person I know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently and nodded.

"And you know I respect and admire your intelligence and am still routinely awed by it?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh.

"Yes, of course."

"Right. Well, right now, I'm sort of wondering why."

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"_John_," Gabriel said forcefully. "Sherlock, why the bloody hell are you off shagging Charles when you've got John?"

Sherlock unfolded his arms, his expression relaxing into shock.

"I've got John? What do you mean, I've got John?"

Gabriel stared at him, then gave his head a shake to clear it. He really needed to sit down but he was not going to dislodge this conversation by moving. He wasn't letting this go.

_This whole time, I thought he knew._ And if he'd been at work, he realised, he would have understood that Sherlock had no clue.

"Sherlock. The dinner with his sister for his birthday. Giving his friend a job. Having Mycroft assign someone to protect Doctor Remsen in Afghanistan. Taking him to meet Irene. Hell, having him meet Angela and Mycroft. Buying him two expensive suits from Pierre's. Having him temporarily replace me – which I know you did not need to do because it's not as though I go everywhere with you. You're perfectly capable of taking on the work I do on your own. You _like_ him."

"Of course I like him," Sherlock scowled. "I'd hardly hire a doctor I did not like. And I would do these same things for you if the circumstances warranted it."

"First, you hired him because his sister was in debt to you and just happened to have the right qualifications for the job. Second, yes, you'd do these things for me because you've known me for eight years and I'm your best friend. You've known John for a month and a half, Sherlock. For God's sake, open your eyes!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Gabriel ignored it and kept going.

"You're interested in him, Sherlock. You've spent the past month doing everything you can to ensure he has to spend time with you – not because you needed his help with my work. He wouldn't have the first clue where to start! You've kept him with you because you like him."

"Of course I like him!" Sherlock snapped. "This is absurd. Are you actually suggesting –"

"No, I'm not _suggesting_!" Gabriel cut him off. "I'm bloody well straight out _telling you_ because you're too blind to see it! 'Sherlock Holmes, the Great Consulting Criminal' and you can't even see what's right in front of your face! You're acting like a teenage boy with a crush, Sherlock, and what's worse is that you seem to have _no idea_ that John feels exactly the same way!"

Sherlock jerked slightly and stared at him.

"Don't be preposterous," he hissed. "John is not gay."

Gabriel gaped at him.

"No," he agreed. "No, he's not. For god's sake, Sherlock, I would have thought eight years knowing me was enough to teach you how to spot the bisexual ones. And don't tell me he's not! I _am_ and I would know. He's interested in you – he's bloody well fallen in love with you and you've been leading him on for a month and then he comes to see you – probably to tell you! – and you're bloody well off shagging Charles!" He drew a deep breath, trying to reassert some balance, both mentally and physically. His left leg was protesting the abuse of holding all his standing weight for so long, but he ignored it. "For a proper genius, you're acting like a right idiot right now."

"I have not been 'leading him on'," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Well not intentionally, no. Because you clearly had no idea you were falling in love with him either."

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"What do you think I've been telling you this whole time, Sherlock?" Gabriel sighed. "Do you want me to write it down for you? Spell it out? It's been obvious to me for a month and I was on morphine part of the time."

"I certainly would know if –"

"No, you wouldn't," Gabriel said, ignoring the look of consternation he received at that. "You wouldn't. John's outside of your experience and so is all of this. If he's into threesomes with incredibly gorgeous French men, then fine. But it's not fair to anyone for you to try and avoid the subject by shagging other people."

He had stunned Sherlock into silence, which was so rare an event that Gabriel might have appreciated it if his left leg hadn't been screaming at him by that point. He adjusted his hold on his crutches and pushed himself away from the wall.

"I need to sit down," he said and hobbled into the living room, hissing in relief when he sank onto the couch. He closed his eyes momentarily and when he reopened them, he saw Sherlock standing beside one of the armchairs, watching him with a blank expression.

"What?" Gabriel asked. His boss was silent, then shook his head, his eyes sliding away. Gabriel gave a soft chuckle, little more than a sigh with a hint of humour in it.

"You're so bloody good at reading people," he said. "You see right through everyone else but you only show them what you want them to see. And you've done a brilliant job pulling the wool over your own eyes."

Sherlock's gaze met his again and he scowled.

"I have no intentions of lying to myself," he snapped.

"So you're going to tell John then?" Gabriel asked simply. Something blazed in Sherlock's eyes – anger mixed with panic. Gabriel had never seen that expression on Sherlock before but he could identify it all the same.

"Oh, I see," he said. "So now you know but it's easier to just ignore it."

Sherlock flared his nostrils, anger tightening his features. Gabriel had hit the nail on the head and he knew it – he also knew Sherlock hated being told he was backing down from a challenge.

"You could spend the rest of your life keeping Charles as your lover and having fantastic sex – it doesn't sound like a bad idea. I can see the appeal. Charles doesn't want anything complicated from you. You know where you stand with him. You know where you stand with all of us. Even Mycroft, even Jim. I don't think you'd be unhappy if things stayed the way they are. It's worked for twelve years. Why shouldn't it just keep working?"

"Indeed," Sherlock replied coolly.

"On the other hand, what will you do with John? Pretend this never happened? Pretend you don't know now?" Gabriel leant forward, bending his right leg ever so slightly, drawing Sherlock's attention to it. "Fire him? Because I actually do still need him."

He saw that hit home. Sherlock was not about to risk Gabriel's recovery and the younger man knew it. He grasped the moment of uncertainty.

"Since when are you willing to deny yourself someone you want?" he asked. Sherlock's eyes narrowed but Gabriel knew he'd got it. "And since when do you shy away from something difficult? You've been running circles around the police since you were fourteen. You face Jim on a regular basis. Or is this different because it's personal?"

"Are you suggesting I'm frightened?" Sherlock growled.

"Are you?" Gabriel asked in reply. Sherlock's lips parted as if he were going to answer, then he pressed them shut again. "Is it really easier to keep shagging Charles to avoid acknowledging that you're interested in John? Is that what you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's gaze sharpened again and Gabriel's lips twitched into a bare, humourless smile. He saw something behind those eyes, guilt or trepidation, and saw a tension creep into Sherlock's stance.

"What are you suggesting that I do?" his boss asked softly and Gabriel was momentarily startled by the question, the admission.

"That you stop lying to yourself and talk to John. Maybe explain why you are such an idiot."

Sherlock pursed his lips again, displeasure flashing across his features, and Gabriel held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"We're all idiots sometimes about these things," he said.

"I have no desire to play the fool," Sherlock said coolly.

"You will either way," Gabriel assured him. Sherlock flared his nostrils at that, his expression still pinched into a dark frown.

"And then what?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Gabriel said. He gave another small, dry smile. Sherlock wanted reassurances, wanted to know precisely what would happen, a step-by-step timetable. His whole life involved dealing with carefully laid plans, considering all contingencies, covering all angles. He moved through life knowing where he stood and what everyone around him was thinking and doing. He knew where the police where at all times, he knew what Jim and the other major crime syndicates in the city were doing. He knew how to read everyone, he knew how to manipulate people to get what he wanted. He'd taught Gabriel to think the same way – and he'd never once considered these skills might not apply to his personal life.

"I didn't know what would happen when I asked Sandra out," Gabriel said. "I still don't know what's going to happen. Maybe we'll stay together. Maybe we won't. I don't know. And that's fine."

"How can that be fine?" Sherlock snapped.

"Because it _is_," Gabriel said. "Because this is what I want. Because she is who I want. Do you think you can plan for everything when it comes to John? You've never been able to plan for him at all, Sherlock. Why would you want to start now?"

Sherlock stared at him, expression easing back into surprise. Gabriel let the silence stretch out for a long moment until Sherlock licked his lips.

"And if I were to go speak to him, what would I say?" he asked carefully. Gabriel almost smiled, fighting down the expression with some effort.

"Other than what I've told you? I don't know. Apologise. Admit to being an idiot in this case. Don't tell him I told you to say any of it. Beyond that – I don't know, Sherlock. I'm not the one dating him."

"Nor am I," Sherlock snapped.

"Well I'm also not the one who wants to be." Sherlock opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it again. Gabriel saw the surprised realisation on his features as Sherlock finally put words around it. He wanted to be in a relationship with John – not just shagging, not just friends.

"It won't be easy. He might be angry." There was another flare of panic in Sherlock's eyes and Gabriel shook his head. "No, I will not go with you. It's not like a business deal, Sherlock. It's going to be unpleasant and touchy and messy."

He saw a retort forming on Sherlock's lips but beat him to it.

"It might be worth it. Although you might want to wear a scarf."


	56. Chapter 56

John stared at the brass numbers on his front door.

Maybe he'd quit. Maybe he'd move. Maybe he'd re-enlist – except the army wouldn't take him. Someone would. Red Cross. Doctors Without Borders. He could just leave. Get out of London.

Forget he'd been a complete idiot.

Or he could just quit and stay in the city. He'd pay off Harry's debt somehow. Or she could, for God's sake. She was sober and making more money.

He would – he didn't know what he'd do. Everything seemed too overwhelming. Quitting, staying. He just wanted to hide, to curl up and forget that morning had ever happened.

_You'll be fine_, he insisted to himself. _You'll move on._

He fished out his keys, aware he was getting some odd looks. John let himself in, feeling a momentary flash of relief. He could go upstairs and lock himself in his flat, shut out the world. Give himself time to regroup. Sherlock probably wouldn't need him today – unless someone else managed to get shot.

His relief was short-lived when he saw Jamie down the hall, doing his laundry. The mechanic looked up, giving him a surprised look that shifted almost immediately into a frown. He stepped away from the washing machine, watching John in concern.

"You all right?" he asked silently at the same time John asked:

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Jamie shook his head and tapped his neck then pointed at John and the doctor remembered – he had appointments with his specialists later that morning. John sighed and nodded.

Jamie asked something that John interpreted as "what happened?". He shook his head.

"Nothing. It's fine," he said. The smack of an open palm on the washing machine made him jump slightly and Jamie's eyes narrowed hard.

"Bullshit," Jamie mouthed and John shook his head again.

"Jamie, it's nothing."

Jamie pulled out his phone with a scowl and typed furiously. John felt his own phone buzz a moment later and pulled it out. He could feel Jamie's glare on him as he read the message.

_You look like absolute shit. What the hell happened?_

John was mildly surprised – but he hadn't been trying to keep his expression neutral after he'd left Sherlock's. He felt another dull flash of embarrassment and shame when he remembered Sherlock's casual introduction and the evaluating look Chauvière had given him.

He gave his head another shake; he didn't want to go into it in the hallway, where Mrs. Hudson might walk out into the conversation.

"Come upstairs," he sighed. Once in his flat, John waved his friend into one of the chairs but Jamie stayed standing, crossing his arms and arching an eyebrow at John. The doctor sighed, locking the door behind them and raking a hand through his hair.

"I just –" John said, then stopped. How was he supposed to explain all of this to Jamie? He wished Harry were there, which was an unexpected feeling. Or Tricia, which was not. "I made a stupid mistake."

At this, Jamie looked alarmed, eyes darting to the medical bag John was still holding.

"No, nothing like that," John sighed, putting the bag down and shedding his coat. Jamie's expression relaxed somewhat but stayed quizzical. John sighed again, wishing Jamie would just leave so he could curl up in his chair and feel stupid all on his own.

"Have you ever – have you ever been really sure about something and then found out you were completely wrong?"

Jamie gave John a quizzical look and nodded slowly. John could see the questions on his face, but then there was a flash of realisation in Jamie's hazel eyes. John wondered what he was thinking. He held up one finger for John to wait before disappearing into the kitchen to return a few minutes later with a cup of tea for each of them. John accepted his and sank into his chair. Jamie sat across from him, putting his phone down on the small table beside him. He made a circular gesture with his right hand, urging John to continue.

John sipped his tea, letting the steam waft over his skin. It felt good, distracting.

"I – well, there was someone I was interested in. I was going to say something. Ended up making an ass out of myself."

He felt Jamie's gaze on him as he looked at his tea before sipping it again. He heard Jamie shift and a moment later, the mechanic's phone was being extended toward him. John took it, then stared at the question on the screen in shock.

_Sherlock?_

John raised his head quickly, meeting a mixture of disapproval and sympathy. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.

"How did you know?" he asked. Jamie gestured for his phone. John dug his out again when it buzzed.

_John, the whole bloody world knows._

"What?" John demanded. Jamie rolled his eyes.

_The way you look at him. Not exactly subtle._

John tried to rebalance himself and get his lungs to cooperate enough to breathe – if Jamie knew, then Sherlock must know. _But of course he knows_, he thought. _You figured that out already, at Angelo's. He was just being gracious – God. And you walked right into his flat._ He pressed a fist against his forehead.

"You know," he said flatly. There was a moment's pause and John could hear Jamie typing.

_Always wondered, but you never said anything so I never asked. If you're worrying Tee told me, don't._

John looked up from his phone.

"How did –"

Jamie rolled his eyes again.

_Guessed_, he answered.

"Oh," John said, feeling more out of sorts than he had been. He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to get a grip on the disappointment and the shock. "You – you don't have a problem with it?"

Jamie stared at him for a moment as if the words didn't make sense, then his expression turned to thunder, his eyes flashing. He snarled, a soundless, angry curl of his lips, and launched into a silent tirade. John sat still, stunned by the sudden vehemence, understanding nothing of the outburst that was being directed at him. That was twice in two days that Jamie had been angry enough to rant without being heard. Numbly, John wondered if he missed the ability to yell.

Jamie grabbed his phone suddenly and sent a text to John.

_What am I, some fucking bigoted arsehole? Is that what you think?_

"No," John managed. "I just – it's just – you're –"

_What? Catholic? Straight? Some bloody arsehole who drops a friend because he likes blokes? Thanks, John. Give me some fucking credit._

"No, no," John said, shaking his head, holding up his hands for some peace. "No. I just – most people are surprised to find out. It – the idea can take some getting used to."

Jamie gave an impatient huff.

_I already bloody knew_, he pointed out. John sighed, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. He could still feel Jamie glaring at him and wanted to kick himself for misjudging two people so badly in one day. He'd known Jamie for nearly two years now. He shouldn't have expected so little of him. But Sherlock – at least he might have an excuse with Sherlock. He barely knew the man.

A treacherous little voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he knew Sherlock better than he wanted to admit. His boss had willingly shared details of his life with John – how he got into crime, his hobbies, information about his family. John had even met his brother and sister-in-law.

_Stop it,_ he told himself. _Just stop._

"Yeah, well, you're right," he said to Jamie, raising his head again. The mechanic gave him a glare for good measure then blew an irate sigh from his lips, his eyes darkening. He shook his head and John frowned.

"What?" the doctor asked.

_I don't care if you're playing for both teams, but I do care who you're playing with._

John frowned at his phone then up at his friend.

_Sherlock, John. Yeah, sure, he looks like a painting and he's bloody loaded but he's a bad choice. He's a bloody criminal and you know it and I know it and fine, we work for him but getting involved personally?_

John sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He'd been through all of that with himself. And it hadn't made a difference. He gave a dry, humourless chuckle that sounded almost strangled.

"It doesn't matter. He has a partner."

Jamie paused, surprise flashing across his features.

_What?_

"Just that," John said. "I went over there –" He paused, pursing his lips, his eyes sliding away from Jamie's. "I went over there this morning – to tell him. To say thanks for dealing with Tee yesterday and – everything. I was going to say something. I don't even know what, but something." John gave another wry chuckle and rubbed his hands together before running them over his face. "Doesn't even matter. His partner was there."

Jamie was still frowning at him, expression confused.

"I should have known," John sighed. "I mean, look at him. Look at me. He's got this gorgeous Frenchman. I'm a bloody idiot."

Jamie was silent for a long moment and John met his gaze again reluctantly.

"What?" the doctor asked. Jamie sighed quietly, fiddling with his phone, then sent another text.

_Did you actually tell him?_

"No," John replied ruefully. "Not exactly the best time to do it, with his partner right there." Jamie pursed his lips, still looking puzzled. John sighed. "Jamie, what?"

There was a moment's hesitation before Jamie sent his reply.

_Never liked the way he looked at you._

John shook his head.

"Yeah, well, you weren't the only one who noticed," he muttered. "But he's just like that. I should have known. I've seen him with Gabriel. He's pretty much the same way. It's just how he is. I read too much into it. And I got my hopes up. My fault for being stupid."

Jamie smacked his phone against his palm.

_You are not stupid. Sorry, John, but this is better. If you want a bloke, find one who doesn't not have problems with theft and murder._

"You're the one who told me to take this job," John pointed out.

_The job, yeah. It's just a job. And the job was to be a doctor. Shag your way through all the men in London if that's what you want, but don't be caught up in this. What happens if the police ever catch up to him? Be realistic._

"Like you and Tee are realistic?" John snapped, feeling his patience unwind. Jamie shot him a warning glare.

_Waited until I was discharged!_ he shot back. _Her getting court-martialled wasn't worth it. And do you expect him to stop being a crime boss for you?_

"No," John replied shortly. "Is it – Does it matter?"

Jamie nodded.

_Because you're my mate and I don't want to see you get hurt._

John sighed, all of the short-lived fight draining out of him. He nodded numbly, realising Jamie was right. And that he wasn't trying to be an arse. John rubbed his forehead, trying to convince himself not to be disappointed, to accept that Jamie was making sense. It _was_ a bad idea, even if it could have worked. Sherlock thought nothing of having robbing people of their savings, their possessions, or even their lives. He did what he did for himself – he'd told John as much. He was selfish, vain, arrogant, and a criminal. He'd more or less blackmailed John into working for him to pay off Harry's debt.

_And he pays you a generous salary, got you a flat in the middle of London at a huge rent break, had his brother assign security to one of your best friends overseas, and hired one of your best friends here_.

He scowled to himself, wishing things could be more black and white.

"Too late," he murmured belatedly to Jamie's last comment. He was already hurt.

Being hurt was why he'd made the decision to stick with women fifteen years ago.

_Should've listened to myself,_ he thought ruefully. _Should've known better._

He'd been hurt by women, too, but somehow, never quite as badly. John wondered why he did this to himself. He'd never understood why Danny had been worse than the other breakups he hadn't wanted. He had no desire to understand. He didn't want to think about Danny Hughes any more than he wanted to think about Sherlock Holmes right now.

He wanted them both to disappear. He wanted Jamie to leave so he could wallow in his sorrows on his own for a bit. John checked the time vaguely on his phone. Just after nine. Pity. Too early for a beer.

His phone buzzed and he called up Jamie's new message.

_Want me to lay him out for you?_ John's lips quirked but he shook his head. He could still remember Harry punching Danny so hard she'd broken his nose. She'd paid a steep fine and done some community service. He wondered if Danny's nose was still crooked.

_Sorry this happened,_ Jamie sent. John nodded.

"Thanks," he muttered. He wanted to say that Jamie was right, that he was better off without Sherlock, but it felt like a lie. He still couldn't believe that. He'd been so sure. He thought of all the times Sherlock had been in his home, how much John had wanted to push him up against a wall or onto the couch and shag the hell out of him. He still wanted that. But someone else had it. The image of Sherlock's flat littered with strewn clothes was still too fresh in his mind. So were the images of Chauvière in Sherlock's dressing gown and the marks on Sherlock's neck.

_Get a grip, John_, he told himself. He looked up to see Jamie typing on his phone but received no corresponding text. For a moment, John felt a flash of panic that he was texting Tricia.

"Don't you need to go for your appointments?" John asked. Jamie snorted softly.

_Just emailed to reschedule, _he sent. John sighed, torn between gratitude and irritation. He wanted to be alone and did not want to be alone. Somehow, the idea of doing anything today seemed too daunting. He thought he could handle wallowing in self-pity and that was it.

_Not getting rid of me that easily_.

John chuckled dryly.

"If shrapnel to your trachea didn't do it then I don't see how I could," he commented. Jamie flashed him a brief grin and gave him a nod. John sighed again, his smile vanishing. Jamie stood, picking up his mug, and gestured for John to pass his over.

_When all else fails_, John thought. He curled up in his chair when Jamie went into the kitchen and tried his best not to feel like crap.


	57. Chapter 57

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to the lovely **staceuo**!

* * *

><p>Sherlock had simply instructed Gerald to drive. He didn't care where. Nor did he care that there was work to be done – there was always work to be done. The last of his lieutenants, Alessandra de Luca, was not arriving from Italy until that evening anyway, so nothing significant could begin until the following morning.<p>

Lost in thought, he tapped an index finger absently against his lips and stared unseeingly at the city flashing by. He did not need to pay attention to the streets and alleyways as they slid past; he knew precisely where he was. A part of his brain that was not focussed on John's reactions that morning and on what Gabriel had told him was automatically calculating the turns they made, the speed at which they were travelling, and the direction in which they were heading. They were in the area of New Scotland Yard, which made him wonder at his driver's sense of humour.

As much as he wished to avoid considering what Gabriel had said, he could not. And it was not the younger man's words that caused consternation, but his own actions. Gabriel had accused him of deceiving himself. This was displeasing and unacceptable. He was determined to stop doing so and therefore set to mentally evaluating everything he had said to or done with John since meeting the doctor.

He recalled being impressed that first day; it always took him by surprise when people stood up to him. It was gratifying in a way and a number of people he had hired who were close to him had their positions because of it. But he had not been expecting it from an invalided army doctor who had little money and fewer prospects.

John was unusual in a way in which Sherlock was unused to.

He was accustomed to spotting promise and potential and giving it direction, moulding it into precisely what he wanted. He had done this to everyone close to him and it was the reason behind his success and his ability to say several steps ahead of the police at all times. But John – he had found John as a doctor and a former soldier, which was all that he had wanted from the man. He had not thought past that. He had not expected there to be _more_.

It shouldn't have mattered. But somehow it had. The doctor had slipped past all of his defences because he had not even considered that he should have defences against someone like John Watson. Outwardly, he was a fairly normal person. Quiet and unassuming, with a casual style of dress that would not get him noticed in a crowd, loyal, thoughtful, steady. Middle class and ordinary.

Underneath all of that, extraordinary. He hid a sharp intelligence behind his restrained nature and warm jumpers. Sherlock had seen hints of it the first time they'd met, when John accurately assessed Gabriel's injury without seeing it, but he'd assumed that was simply good medical knowledge.

He should have paid closer attention.

He thought of things Gabriel had pointed out that he'd done for John and his argument that he would have done the same for his business partner. That was true – and he'd have done the same for Irene and Charles. But Gabriel, Irene and Charles were his people. Sherlock strongly suspected that John wasn't anyone's. He belonged solely to himself unless he chose to be otherwise.

Part of him wished this hadn't happened. His personal life had been fairly simple before this. He knew where he stood with Charles and Charles knew where he stood with Sherlock. He'd never desired more and so never had reason to pursue it.

Sherlock felt a flash of shock remembering Charles' question that morning. His lover had bluntly reminded Sherlock that he had no desire for personal complications, a concern that had never once before been raised in the entire time they'd known one another. He _knew_. He'd figured it out from the briefest of interactions with John. Gabriel had also known. Sherlock ran a hand across his face. Who else knew? Irene, most likely. He wondered if Mycroft and Angela did.

_Of course they do_, he thought with a scowl. His brother and sister-in-law were not the type to miss something like that. It was only a miracle Mycroft hadn't tormented him about it. Yet. That was probably Angela's doing.

He wondered suddenly what Mycroft had thought when he'd first met Angela. Sherlock was aware that he and his brother were alike in many ways – although he was not willing to admit to that out loud. He wished suddenly – probably for the first time in his life – that this was the sort of thing he could talk about to Mycroft. It was very likely that Mycroft would understand precisely how he felt, but Sherlock was not inclined to go to his brother for advice. Mycroft would only gloat silently and lord it over him for the rest of their lives.

He was on his own when it came to determining what to do.

He could ignore it, he supposed. After all, he'd hired John as a doctor and a body guard, nothing more. He did his job exceptionally well and Sherlock needn't complicate matters by bringing all of this out.

Except that matters were already complicated. He knew. John knew. John had been in his flat with Charles.

Sherlock did not know what to make of that. He appreciated Charles as a lover; it was comfortable and easy. He wondered if he could give that up. He and Charles had been lovers for twelve years. He wondered if he would miss it. He suspected he would.

But.

The idea of being with John was startlingly appealing. The thought of it forced him to slow his breathing down and keep himself composed. John was new and interesting – but it was more than simply that. Sherlock had had other lovers during the past twelve years and it was always exciting to learn a new body, to be touched by different hands and lips.

It surprised him to realise that – for the first time – he thought he might want more. He wanted John in his bed, no denying that, he wanted to see the doctor fully exposed, everything stripped away. He'd seen John mostly unclothed in Pierre's, clad only in his boxer shorts and socks. Looking back, Sherlock could recall that John had been tense and uncomfortable. He hadn't realised precisely why.

It went beyond the image of having John, of the things he wanted to do to him. He simply wanted John _there_. The car felt suddenly silent and still. The doctor's presence had filled it up, bringing a certain ease and sense of adventure with it.

He _wanted_ John. Not just to shag him, but just to be with him.

It was a shocking concept.

Sherlock thought of what Gabriel said – that it could be messy. He recalled Irene's divorce; that had been extremely messy indeed. But he thought of his parents, of Mycroft and Angela, of Gabriel and Sandra. Surely if they could all manage, so could he? It couldn't be complicated solely for him. He felt at a loss; years of study of human behaviour and he had not really considered what this would be like. He'd used it falsely before to get what he wanted, but he'd never imagined it might actually apply to him.

Making a decision, he sat forward and slid the darkened glass panel aside so he could speak to Gerald.

"Baker Street," he said.

* * *

><p>He felt a rare hesitation upon entering 221B that he had not felt before in the entire time he'd known it. Sherlock supposed that he should announce himself but the thought of John greeting him on the street sat ill with him. There were a number of pedestrians on the pavement and the street was busy with traffic. He did not feel the need for strangers to witness any discussion he had with John.<p>

He shut the front door gently behind him and made his way up to the B flat. Sherlock rapped lightly on the door, then adjusted his scarf so that it was fully covering his neck. He waited, hearing the footsteps inside the flat approaching the door.

"I'm honestly fi –" John said as he pulled the door open, cutting himself off abruptly. Sherlock saw the shock in the doctor's features and John's eyes widened for a moment as he stared at him. Then his expression hardened, shut down. He stiffened, narrowing his eyes somewhat, his posture adjusting to a neutral military one.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said in a flat voice. "What can I do for you?"

* * *

><p>John had finally managed to convince Jamie that he was absolutely fine and really just wanted to take a nap and the mechanic had left reluctantly, clearly unhappy about it.<p>

Once alone, he sat in his chair, staring blankly at nothing for awhile, then got up and fixed himself some tea. He sipped his tea in the silence of his flat, trying desperately not to think, but his thoughts chased themselves round and round until he started to get a headache from the constant prattle in his mind. No matter how many times he tried to tell himself he'd been wrong, part of his brain came back with the fact that he had been so sure. He reminded himself that he'd been wrong about people before – there had been an American nurse in Afghanistan whom he'd been interested in but she had not returned the sentiment. Somehow, he was convinced that this time it was different, this time it was worse.

John sighed and moved to his couch where he stretched out and dozed for a bit. When he awoke, there was a moment in which he felt light and confused as to why this was such a relief. Then the events of that morning came rushing back and he sighed, the familiar weighted feeling settling over him again.

He hadn't actually embarrassed himself in front of Sherlock. At least he had that. _Could be worse_, he told himself, snuggling down under the afghan that Mrs. Hudson had given him. He tried to list the good things he now had in his life – a high-paying job, a good flat, loyal friends, a better relationship with his sister – but it all made him feel somehow more lonely and depressed.

Sighing, he hauled himself to his feet and began to putter around, deliberately finding small projects to do to keep himself occupied. The flat needed a good cleaning anyway. After awhile, John put on the telly for company. It was one of those daytime talk shows he vaguely recognised from the handful of times he'd watched it with Mrs. Hudson – some makeover show. Mrs. Hudson had told him that she'd learned to do her colours from it. John wasn't even sure what that meant or why it mattered. Eventually, the banality of the show got to him and he shut it off, grateful for the silence again.

When he'd exhausted all the cleaning possibilities, he made himself more tea and sat back down in his chair, staring at the fireplace. He should check with Mrs. Hudson to see if it was still working, maybe have it cleaned. It would be nice to have a fire in the flat.

A knock on the door startled him slightly and he looked up before setting his mug aside with a sigh. John pushed himself to his feet and crossed the flat slowly. He wasn't really surprised Jamie was back but he still wasn't in the mood for company.

"I'm honestly fi –" he said as he pulled the door open, then cut himself off abruptly when he saw Sherlock standing on the other side of the threshold. John felt himself tense and then swallowed on the shock, falling back on his old army training to keep himself mentally balanced. Sherlock's expression was almost neutral with a hint of hesitancy around his eyes.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said in a flat voice. "What can I do for you?"

* * *

><p>His boss stared him silently for a moment and John felt a flash of irritation. He didn't miss that Sherlock was wearing a scarf that carefully covered the love bites on his neck. At least he'd had the decency to do that – although it was still fairly cold, John reminded himself. This probably had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the weather.<p>

"Does someone need a doctor?" John prompted.

"No," Sherlock said and John felt a flash of relief followed by dismay. It would be a lot simpler if Sherlock needed his medical service. There was a brief pause – a hesitation? – then Sherlock continued. "I suspect I should apologise for this morning."

"Nothing to apologise for," John said woodenly. "I shouldn't have come up to your flat uninvited. I didn't know you had company."

_A partner, I didn't know you had a partner,_ he amended mentally.

Sherlock pursed his lips slightly, a brief nervous movement. John stood silently, waiting for an answer, his body blocking the doorway. There was no way he was going to invite Sherlock in now, not today, not after that. He was fairly sure that unless his boss needed medical help, he was never letting the him into his flat again.

"Perhaps this is a bad idea," Sherlock said softly. John gave a mechanical nod. _Well of course he knows why I'm put off_, he thought. It didn't matter. He didn't want an apology, he didn't want an explanation. He just wanted Sherlock to leave.

"Probably," John agreed. He stepped back and made to close the door but there was a sudden pressure on it, holding it back. He glanced up to see a gloved hand resting on the wood, keeping it open. He glared at Sherlock who gave no indication of letting go.

"Perhaps it would be worse if I left," Sherlock said.


	58. Chapter 58

John glared hard at Sherlock, neither of them moving. He gripped the door, wondering how much force he'd need to shut and lock it – then realised it wouldn't matter. Mrs. Hudson had a set of keys and she'd give them to Sherlock.

"I don't think we have anything to talk about," John said coolly.

"On the contrary, I'm quite certain we do."

John pursed his lips, steeling himself.

"I'm sorry I got the wrong idea," he said, meaning it more than Sherlock would realise. "I misread the situation and–"

"No," Sherlock said, cutting him off and John started.

"What?"

"You didn't misread the situation, John."

"Obviously I did, Sherlock. Unless we're not talking about the same thing, but I thought–"

"Yes, I know what you thought," Sherlock said. "And I assure you, _you_ did not misread the situation. I did."

John stared, convinced he'd heard wrong, but Sherlock held his gaze evenly, his expression serious.

"Sorry?" he asked. Sherlock sighed.

"May I please come in? A common corridor is not the ideal place for this discussion."

"Especially if you don't want to be on the receiving end of Jamie's right hook," John said without thinking. He realised he should have been appalled – or at least apologetic – but he didn't care. Sherlock only raised his eyebrows and John suddenly wondered if he'd ever been in a fight before.

"Yes," Sherlock said as though reading his mind. "Although I wouldn't take my chances against him."

John snorted derisively; Sherlock was right about that. Whatever wiry strength he might be hiding, John wouldn't lay bets against Jamie under almost any circumstance.

"Fine," he sighed, moving back from the door with bad grace, smothering surprise at Sherlock's momentary hesitation. His boss stepped inside and stood uncomfortably out of the way as John shut the door, deliberately not locking it. He folded his arms and waited, enjoying the uneasiness that crossed Sherlock's face. After a moment, his boss removed his coat and hung it carefully but kept his scarf on. At least John didn't have to look at the bruises - not that he couldn't see an unmistakeable few scoring Sherlock's wrists. He was an army doctor. He knew what handcuff marks looked like.

He clamped down on his imagination when it threatened to fill in details for him and gave Sherlock another hard glare.

"Tea?" he asked, his voice sharper than he'd intended it. Without waiting for an answer, John stalked into his kitchen and grabbed the kettle off its base. This had been a bad idea; he should have refused to let Sherlock in.

"I believe I owe you an apology," Sherlock said from the entry to the kitchen. John filled the kettle without looking up.

"I don't see why," he retorted. He switched the kettle on and turned to Sherlock again, folding his arms, adopting his best captain's glare. "You're my boss, Sherlock. You do what you need to do. I'm your doctor and a guard for Mrs. Hudson. That's all."

"No, that's not all," Sherlock replied coolly, arching a dark brow. "And we're now both quite aware of that."

_"Come on, John, you know I love you."_

John's nostrils flared and he felt a flush of anger heat his face. With as much self restraint as he could muster, he swallowed on a snarl, taking a deep breath in its place, letting it out slowly.

He wasn't setting himself up for that sort of thing, not again.

"You have a partner," he said, his voice like ice.

The surprise on Sherlock's face sent a flash through John, followed by a shock of anger.

"Oh, come on!" John snapped, gesturing abruptly at Sherlock. "He was in your flat half dressed with your clothes all over the place! I may not–"

"Charles is not my partner," Sherlock interrupted and John stopped short.

"What?"

"Charles is not my partner. He's my lover."

John stared, then shook his head, trying to dislodge the words.

"Is there a difference?" he demanded.

"Of course," Sherlock said with a genuinely puzzled look that angered John further. "We don't have any kind of romantic relationship. We sleep together, nothing more."

_"You know they don't mean anything, John. None of them meant anything."_

"Oh, that's all right then, is it?" he spat. "You just sleep together – that's fine then!" Sherlock opened his mouth to interject but John cut him off. "Sherlock, you went to university with him! How bloody long have you been lovers?"

"Twelve years."

"Twelve– twelve _years? Twelve years?_ That's longer than most people stay married and you're telling me that doesn't mean anything? What do you think this is? Are you just going to– I don't know, keep us both around for whenever you want us? Have him on the side? Have _me_ on the side? No! No, Sherlock, no! I am _not_ doing that again!"

Ignoring the kettle when it clicked off, John stalked into the living room and spun around.

"I want you out of my flat," he said.

"What do you mean 'again'?" Sherlock asked at the same time. John closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Out," he repeated, jabbing a finger toward the door.

Sherlock didn't move.

"What do you mean by again?" he repeated, folding his arms loosely, grey eyes trained on John.

"My personal life is none of your bloody business!" John snapped.

"On the contrary–"

"No, not on the contrary, it just isn't! I'm your physician! I work for you! I _only _work for you because my sister is an alcoholic and I was an unemployed, invalid army doctor who needed money! That's it!"

"Then why did you come to my flat this morning?" Sherlock asked.

John stopped up short, swallowed, and tried to reassert some self control.

"To thank you for helping locate Tricia yesterday. And to give you an update on Gabriel's progress."

"And not because you have a personal interest in me."

John pressed a hand against his forehead.

"It doesn't matter what I have. You're my boss and you have a partner– _lover_, whatever you want to call him. For God's sake, Sherlock, I don't need this. Just go."

"Who was he?" Sherlock asked softly.

"What?" John asked, derailed.

"Who was he?"

"Who was who?"

"You said you wouldn't do this again, John. Who did you do this for?"

John opened his mouth but Sherlock spoke over him this time.

"You won't listen to my distinction between lover and partner and you immediately assumed I would be unfaithful to you – or to Charles, despite the fact that you know nothing of our relationship."

"Excuse me for not caring," John snapped. "It has nothing to do with me – and you didn't seem to notice I was interested!"

"I'll admit that I did not know until now that you are bisexual – nothing in your background suggests it. Nothing about _you_ suggested it, not initially."

John threw up his hands in disgust.

"Oh, well, sorry I don't conform to your expectations about how I should act! _I'm_ not the one who's had the same lover for twelve years and is now trying to convince someone else he should join in the fun, too!"

For a moment, Sherlock's eyes darkened with a flash of anger.

"That is not what I'm suggesting," he said, a hard edge in his voice.

"Then what?" John spat.

"I think it should be obvious."

"Since I'm not a proper genius like you, you'll have to humour me," John retorted. "I know you probably–"

He was cut off when Sherlock crossed the room, tilted his head up and kissed him. For a moment, John was shocked into immobility, his mind numb and unresponsive. Then it kicked into high gear, heightening all the sensations for him. Sherlock's lips were softer than he'd imagined them to be, no hint of dryness despite the season, warm and full. With a jolt, John realised this was really happening and that it was better than he'd ever fantasised – he'd never dreamt Sherlock's skin and mouth would actually be so warm or that he'd taste faintly of minty toothpaste and coffee.

When his hand started to move up of its own accord, John jerked himself back to reality and pulled away. He pursed his lips, trying to get the taste of Sherlock off of them, trying to stop the tingling sensation that made him want _more_.

He took a deep breath, finding the anger again and holding onto it.

"You think that's the solution?" John demanded. "You come in here and kiss me and–" He cut himself off, swallowing on saying he wanted more, trying to ignore the urgent desire. "You have a gorgeous Frenchman in your flat and you think it's all right to come over here and – what? Maybe you can keep me here and him there and that would work just fine for you, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock sighed and stepped away.

"Charles is my _lover_."

"Yes, you keep saying!" John snapped.

"And you're not listening," Sherlock replied. "That's all he is – aside from his work. That's all either of us ever wanted from the other. Neither of us wanted emotional entanglements. I am not interested in a relationship with him. He is not interested in a relationship with me. It's an arrangement that has worked extremely well. Until now."

"So – what? You want to replace him with me?"

"No."

John shook his head. For a moment, he thought he caught a hint of nervousness on Sherlock's face but it was smoothed away as if it had never been.

"I _am_ interested in a relationship with you, John."

The words stopped John again and he stared blankly, then the anger snapped back.

"Did you just decide that this morning, then?" he demanded. "Wake up and think 'oh I'm done with this Frenchman now and–'"

"I believe I've wanted it for quite some time now," Sherlock interrupted, looking distinctly uncomfortable. John gave a sharp, barking laugh.

"You believe?" he asked. "You aren't sure?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I'm certain that I've wanted it. I simply wasn't aware of it until today."

"Oh, well, that makes no sense whatsoever," John retorted. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor.

"Have you never deceived yourself before?"

John raked a hand through his hair, exhaling a hard sigh. Sherlock waited.

"Right. So. You wanted to be with me but you didn't want to let yourself realise you wanted to be with me because – I don't know, maybe you're an idiot – so instead of facing up to it, you tried to avoid it by shagging an incredibly gorgeous Frenchman?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Yes. Although I will admit when said out loud it sounds absurd."

"Absurd? It sounds bloody idiotic! Then you come over here and you won't take off your scarf because I know you've got bruises on your neck and you're a pretty perceptive man – ha! most of the time! – and I know you know I've seen the marks on your wrists and you probably know I know what they are!"

He raised his hands as if to ward off a response from Sherlock.

"And then what? What about Charles?"

"What about Charles?" Sherlock replied.

John dropped his hands, staring at Sherlock in shock, searching for some hint that he wanted to take back his words.

"No," the doctor said softly, then more forcefully: "No! No, I'm not doing this again. To bloody hell with that!"

He stalked into the kitchen, realising when he got there he had no reason to be there and that now he was trapped when Sherlock blocked the doorway behind him. John kept his back to his boss, focusing his angry gaze on the window.

"Someone you loved was unfaithful to you and attempted to pass off his indiscretions as meaningless. You accepted this – most likely more than once – but couldn't do so forever."

John felt his hands tightening into fists and forced them to relax. He swallowed hard, wanting to get out of this situation but not wanting to turn around and face Sherlock.

"You mistake how I feel about Charles with this man's lack of empathy for his lovers."

John set his jaw and glanced over his shoulder just enough to make out Sherlock's pale face and thin frame. His expression was almost completely neutral but John could see the hint of caution in it, the careful evaluation of the situation. It made him look starkly young.

"Do you have any idea what it's like?" John asked, drawing a deep breath.

"No," Sherlock said. Of course he didn't. Of course he had no idea what it felt like to listen to the same reassurances over and over – the same lies – to want so desperately to believe this time was the last time, that it would never happen again. He had no idea what it was like to finally draw the line. To realise everyone had known except him. To sit alone in an examination room, waiting for the results of STD tests. Sherlock had no idea how humiliating that was, nor how terrifying.

"I care a great deal about Charles – I've known him for twelve years and I trust him unquestioningly, which is not insignificant in this business, John. But neither he nor I would be put off by ending our physical relationship. He has other lovers."

John turned slowly.

"That doesn't bother you?"

"No. I've had other lovers, too. I do keep saying this is not an emotional relationship."

"And I can't be with someone who can separate himself like that. It's cold."

"Why is it cold?" Sherlock asked. "I don't take advantage of anyone, John. I don't lead people to believe I want something more. I have never once lied to anyone I have been with. I have never claimed to be exclusively theirs."

"So you'd just keep them for variety?"

"No. Clearly that isn't acceptable for you."

John stopped short.

"You think you could just give all of them up for me?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"There is no 'all', John. Currently there's only Charles and yes, if you ask, I will."

"Why?" John demanded and Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly.

"It's what you want."

Abruptly, John had to sit down. He sank into a chair and put his elbows on the table, dropping his head into his hands.

"This is insane," he muttered.

"Why?" Sherlock enquired.

John managed to raise his head to stare wordlessly at Sherlock for a moment.

"You're my boss. I owe you money. You run a multinational criminal organisation. You're gorgeous. You have a gorgeous French lover. You're a genius. Take your pick."

A slight frown creased Sherlock's features, making him look almost his age.

"We could eliminate the debt."

John dropped his head back and laughed sharply.

"No!" he snapped. "What am I? I'm not going to be bought off, Sherlock! And don't you dare say that I was in the first place – I only took this job to help my sister! And now I wish I hadn't! It would have made my life a lot easier!"

"Easier," Sherlock repeated, his voice little more than a murmur. John frowned; his boss sounded contemplative, as if he were repeating someone else's words, not John's.

"Yeah, easier."

"Perhaps this isn't meant to be easy?"

"It's not meant to be anything. I'm your doctor."

"Oh, you're much more than that," Sherlock murmured and John turned to meet his eyes, startled at how quickly Sherlock closed the space between them and bent down. He caught John's lips again but this time the kiss was demanding, his tongue sliding over John's teeth. John opened his mouth and gasped as Sherlock's tongue invaded him. He grasped Sherlock's arms and managed to stand, sending both of them staggering back, breaking them apart. Sherlock stared at him, grey eyes bright, and John realised he was still clutching Sherlock's arms. He could not convince himself to let go.

"Will you stop that?" Sherlock growled.

"Will you?" John snapped back.

"Unlikely."

"You're supposed to be a genius," John snarled. "How is it that you missed this?"

"I've been assured of my capacity for idiocy."

"I bet you have." He paused, shaking his head. "I don't want this."

"Now who is lying to himself?" Sherlock demanded. John's eyes narrowed hard.

"I don't want to be made a fool of again," he retorted. "I don't want to be dropped when you get bored and decide this isn't enough and go back to Charles."

"Can we please stop speaking about Charles?" Sherlock growled.

Moving too quickly for Sherlock to react, John pulled off his scarf.

"No," he said.

"This is not about him," Sherlock said, his voice taking on a cool hint. "This is about what I want and what you want, which just so happen to be the same thing."

"Are they?" John said, raising his eyebrows, holding the scarf tightly. A few hours hadn't done much to reduce the brightness of the bruises against Sherlock's pale skin.

"Why do you assume I'll become bored?" Sherlock demanded.

"You're used to getting what you want whenever you want it," John replied.

"I'm certainly not getting what I want right now."

"And what do you want? Right now."

"You," Sherlock snarled. "For you to believe me, shut up, and take me to bed."

John shook his head.

"Not a chance." He saw the frustration flare in Sherlock's eyes and managed a step back. "I'm not here for you to do whatever you want with. That isn't how it works! This is not what normal people do."

"And what _do_ normal people do?" Sherlock asked, his voice cool and controlled again.

"Spend time together. Get to know each other."

"We've spent a good deal of time together and I believe we know each other very well."

John shook his head.

"Outside of work, I mean. Go for dinner. Go for drinks."

"We've done both of those things," Sherlock pointed out.

"Other things, too! Do things they enjoy together! _Date_, Sherlock!"

"I believe we've already met these criteria. If I recall correctly, you invited me for a walk in Regent's Park and bought me fish and chips. I took you to Angelo's where we did, in fact, have drinks together. I'm also certain I do these sorts of things with Gabriel and I am _not_ dating him."

John sighed and realised he was still holding the scarf. He tossed it on the floor and felt an absurd stab of pleasure when Sherlock's nostrils flared in protest.

"Fine," he conceded. "People do those things with the eventual goal of shagging the other person."

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Thank you!"

"No!" John contradicted. "You can't say you didn't realise you were interested and then count all of those things as dates so you can shag me right now!"

"Do you want me to shag you right now?" Sherlock growled. John sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to nod.

"_But_ we're not going to!" he said. "Sorry, but you still have someone else's marks all over you and you can't just come into my flat, say you were wrong and have it be that. It's not enough."

"Then what is enough, John?"

"Make me dinner," John said, surprising himself. He surprised Sherlock, too, given the way he pulled back and frowned slightly.

"What?"

"Make me dinner," John repeated more firmly.

"Now?"

"No, of course not now, it's barely past eleven in the morning. And I don't mean tonight, either. I know you have all your criminal mates in the city and you have to work to do," he said, enjoying the flash of irritation at 'criminal mates'. "In a couple of days. And _you_ make me dinner. Don't pay someone to do it, don't order take away."

Sherlock looked even more puzzled.

"I don't do my own cooking," he said coolly.

"It's not for you. You're making _me_ dinner. Because you're interested in me and want to date me. It's a _date_, Sherlock. You're doing something for someone you're interested in. And – no! Don't ask what I'll do in return! It's not a business exchange. We'll see what happens."

Sherlock's frown deepened, darkening his eyes. John raised his eyebrows, taking another step back and folding his arms.

"Oh, I see. You want to _know_ what's going to happen."

For a moment, Sherlock looked as though he would nod but he stayed still.

"I understand there are no guarantees," he said carefully.

"That's right. Beyond the basics – no cheating, no lying."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, obviously. Very well, John. I remain unconvinced, but we'll try this your way."


	59. Chapter 59

The sudden acquiescence startled John into momentary silence. He inhaled slowly, keeping a sharp eye on Sherlock, who was watching him with a cautious, evaluating look in return.

"All right," John said – and felt suddenly unbalanced. Had he just negotiated a _date_? With his criminal boss? The entire situation felt so unreal he thought he must be dreaming, but when Sherlock stepped toward him, an intent look on his face, John held up a hand.

"That can wait, too," he snapped. "Plus we've already done it anyway. Twice."

Sherlock scowled at him and John felt another moment of disorientation. He was tempted to pinch himself to make sure he was awake – the idea that Sherlock was interested in him, especially after what he'd seen only a few hours ago, was almost shocking. John's thoughts were chasing themselves around in circles in his mind – _he's in my flat, he has a lover, he wants you, he has those bruises, he's a criminal, god I want him in my bed _– and he just hoped the situation was keeping Sherlock from noticing the mental chaos.

"_I've_ done it," Sherlock stressed. "You were a somewhat – startled participant."

John gave a mechanical nod. Sherlock's eyes raked over his face and the doctor felt so exposed he might as well be naked. He repressed the shudder that threatened to course down his spine and set his shoulders, meeting Sherlock's gaze squarely. The younger man had probably read everything John didn't want him to – and then some – but so be it.

"Right," John agreed. "We have plenty of time for that. For everything. So why don't we wait until I'm not feeling quite so startled?"

A smile quirked at the edges of Sherlock's lips, almost immediately stifled, but John caught it. There was a momentary gleam in Sherlock's grey eyes – more amusement and approval than desire. John had the feeling he was being laughed at, but laughed at in a good way.

"Very well," Sherlock agreed and John didn't miss the smirk that came from him being startled all over again. He thought he should be used to it by now – his life had been one big disoriented feeling for weeks now.

"May I at least have my scarf back?" Sherlock asked.

"It's right there," John said, pointing to the floor where the puddle of blue material lay next to his feet. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him but bent to pick it up, winding it around his neck again in a practiced movement. This time, John thought it was less about covering up the bruises and more for protection against the cold outside.

"You need to go, don't you?" he asked. Sherlock actually hesitated, then nodded.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Probably for the best," John said. He was on the receiving end of another evaluating look and he hoped as hard as he could Sherlock didn't push the issue. If he stayed, John had a feeling any resolve he had would be worn away in very short order. What his body was screaming for and what his brain was demanding were two very different things. He didn't know how long he could hold out against himself.

"I will have –" Sherlock started, then caught himself and John saw him struggling to figure out what to do. The realisation made him bite down on a smile of his own. "I will be in contact by tomorrow to confirm our dinner arrangements."

John smiled at the formality.

"Okay," he agreed. Sherlock hesitated again, then stepped past him, moving into the living room. John followed, hanging back at his boss shrugged his coat on.

"Try not to shoot anyone," John said. Sherlock paused in the act of doing up his buttons and gave John a dry look, accompanied by a pointedly cocked eyebrow.

"On that front, I make no promises at all," he replied.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stopped on the pavement and turned his head slightly so he could just see the worn but gleaming brass numbers on the door behind him.<p>

_How odd_, he thought, trying to categorise the precise sensation he was experiencing. Although it eluded him, this was somehow not nearly as inconvenient as it should have been. He was accustomed to turning other people's lives around at a moment's notice, but not his own. He had very carefully cultivated an existence in which this would not occur.

Strange to think that now, after twenty years of deliberately maintaining a delicate balance in order to ensure his life held no personal surprises, he did not particularly mind this sudden turn of events.

He risked a glance upward, towards John's living room windows.

By rights, the doctor should have been standing there, looking down at him, watching him leave. But the windows were empty of John's frame. Sherlock frowned slightly, feeling a completely new mixture of worry and irritation. Shouldn't John be watching? Shouldn't he want to see Sherlock off?

He scowled to himself, eyes still trained on the windows. A large part of him wanted to hurry back up the stairs and sort everything out, ensure that it was all clear and laid out and understood between them. He felt a strong desire to know how things would progress, to assure himself that he and John were on the same page. It was an odd sense of urgency, as though the opportunity might slip through his fingers unnoticed.

It nearly had.

On the other hand, John had pointed out that they had time. That there was no need to rush. This was also unexpected; Sherlock was used to concluding business arrangements promptly. It was either that or risk losing what he was after, be it people or property.

Strange to think John was not going to wander off for a better offer elsewhere. Certainly a man like John Watson would have other offers? This gave Sherlock paused and he frowned to himself.

_What do you intend to do? _he asked himself. _Rush up there and propose marriage?_

It was a strange thought. He had never pictured himself as the marrying type.

_You're rather jumping the gun,_ he told himself with a scowl.

They did have a date, after all.

Another peculiar sensation. John was still his employee and Sherlock was used to commanding his employees' time as and when needed. He was less used to having boundaries so clearly defined. Gabriel had done so, but that was different. He did not feel an urgent need to ensure Gabriel's loyalty. The younger man wasn't going anywhere.

Sherlock felt almost hesitant to call on John's medical services within the next few days.

_Don't be ridiculous_, he chastised himself. _He is still your doctor. He will do what you ask of him._

Unfortunately, Sherlock knew this was true only on a professional level. John was astonishingly stubborn in regards to the personal matters.

"Sir?"

Sherlock refocused and turned his head to see Gerald watching him with a mildly puzzled expression, standing smartly beside the open car door.

"Everything all right, sir?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, giving himself a mental shake and reasserting his balance and control. He slipped into the dark car, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

John would wait because he had promised to do so. The doctor was nothing if not dependable and responsible.

Jim, on the other hand, was the polar opposite.

"The Strand," Sherlock said and Gerald pulled the car smoothly into traffic.

* * *

><p>Sherlock arrived at the club before Jim did. He had planned it this way, of course – but with the conversation this morning with John, he may well have been late. He preferred to have Jim meet him rather than have Jim waiting for him. Jim didn't do well with waiting and was likely to do some kind of damage if the mood struck him.<p>

Which it so often did.

Sherlock contemplated not removing his scarf when he checked his coat, because of the bruises, but reconsidered. It was a good gambit against Jim. He knew his counterpart would dislike it and find it distracting, as much as he would attempt not to. Sherlock could identify Jim's reaction even if Jim himself could not: he was jealous. He masked it fairly well but not well enough for Sherlock – Charles' role in Sherlock's life had always annoyed Jim greatly. Gabriel was right; Jim was interested in Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

He knew the primary reason Jim had never so much as lifted a finger against Charles was that it would instantly earn him a bullet to the brain.

He would have to ensure, now, that the same message was clear when it came to John Watson. It was difficult to judge how Jim would react to that – just as it was difficult to predict any of his actions. Sherlock had no intentions of telling him, however. He would have to find out through his own usual channels.

He settled into a chair and the hostess vanished quickly and efficiently into the dim lighting of the private club's interior. Sherlock rarely came here; it was one of the few places he and Jim considered neutral territory. He had no desires to run into the psychopath while attempting to enjoy a quiet dinner.

A bottle of red wine was placed on his table by a faceless waiter. It helped to have a glass of wine when dealing with Jim – although he took care never to lose track of his senses and give up the advantage to his rival.

He would like to bring John to a place like this, he realised suddenly. Sherlock sat back, evaluating the sensation. It was such a strange feeling that he let it run unchecked for several seconds before putting it neatly aside. That situation was delicate enough as it was. He scarcely needed to be contemplating it while waiting for Jim's arrival.

He'd have to do something about Charles, of course. But he knew Charles. The other man would be annoyed but nothing more. Sherlock assessed his own opinion on the matter – he had suspected earlier that morning that he would miss their physical relationship. Now he knew he would.

Perhaps John would be amenable to some experimentation?

Sherlock frowned slightly. Best leave that question lie for now; John was not going to be inclined to think highly of Charles – or any perceived suggestion of infidelity – for some time.

With a slow, deep breath, he refocused until all unnecessary and personal contemplations vanished, leaving Jim without any hints other than those Sherlock provided. Within minutes of his meditation, Jim was slipping into the seat across from him.

A quick evaluation revealed irritation in those dark eyes but touches of fatigue – and uncertainty – around the edges of his features. Sherlock smoothed over an inward reaction of satisfaction and kept his features neutral with a hint of bored resignation. Let Jim read into that what he wished; he was aware that his expression was being evaluated just as much as the marks on his neck and wrists were. The irritation darkened to something bordering on displeasure.

But it was bland pleasantries until they had established they weren't eating and were then left without possibility of interruption. Sherlock sipped his wine thoughtfully. He had requested the meeting but he would let Jim begin the conversation. This did not always work, but Sherlock felt it might today – Jim was already put off by the recent arrests and was now more so by Sherlock's appearance.

"London's quite crowded at the moment," Jim commented, pouring himself to a glass of wine to what was no doubt the horror of the maitre d' he had just dismissed.

"No one you don't know," Sherlock replied calmly. "Business."

"And pleasure."

"And pleasure," Sherlock murmured. "I see no reason not to mix the two."

"You have made that quite clear." He sat back with a mild glare. "Ruining yourself."

"They match my shirt," Sherlock replied easily. Jim rolled his eyes.

"It's beneath you, Sherlock."

"My relative position when these were received is irrelevant, Jim. You accuse me of being dull and having no fun, yet you disapprove of what I consider enjoyable. You are quite difficult to please, you know."

"It would be so very easy for you to please me, Sherlock."

"Indeed," Sherlock said noncommittally, sipping his wine again. He didn't miss the nearly repressed flash of irritation in Jim's eyes.

"Why everyone? Why now?"

"Why not?" Sherlock said. He let the comment settle between them for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. "Really, Jim, so paranoid even after all this time? I do this once a year. You've never been so jumpy about it since it first happened."

Jim narrowed his eyes slightly and Sherlock wondered if the 'jumpy' comment would be allowed to pass. It was – but just barely, he suspected.

"Yes, usually in May," Jim replied.

"Quite right. Unfortunately, unavoidable circumstances caused me to reconsider."

"Jeffrey Wells, perhaps? Or some Chinese entrepreneurs being arrested?"

"Jeffrey Wells?" Sherlock enquired, pitching his tone and expression just right.

"The cabbie," Jim said, sipping his own wine, contemplating Sherlock carefully.

"Ah, the murdering cabbie. One of yours, was he? Really, Jim, is that kind of thing necessary? It seems rather messy."

"Not your style, Sherlock?"

"Hardly."

"Of course not! It was _fun_! We had a system, you see. For every person he outlived, he received sponsorship from me. Had these blasted children he wanted to support you know. Not that they matter much anymore."

Sherlock felt a flare of anger that he kept to himself; he _knew_ that had been unnecessary. There were situations in which eliminating family members was warranted. This had not been one of them. Jim had only done it as punishment for being caught.

"Running about London, murdering prominent members of society? Hardly something that would go unnoticed, Jim. It was untidy."

"It was terribly fun – a game, Sherlock, it was a game. A challenge, a test of skill."

"It was chance, Jim. Fifty-fifty chance. Do they get the good bottle or the bad bottle? That's not skill."

Jim sighed, raising his eyebrows in disapproval.

"You're so _dull_, Sherlock! Never a fun moment with you. At least you're consistent, although I hardly see why being boring is so appealing to you." Sherlock stayed silent and Jim's gaze hardened and narrowed suddenly. "And the Chinese importers?"

"Do you mean smugglers?" Sherlock enquired.

"Semantics. Do you know how long it took me to get those exit visas?"

"Not nearly as long as the eight years I've invested in training Gabriel to be my second-in-command," Sherlock snapped back, allowing his patience to unwind somewhat. "You may be taken by your petty, meaningless 'games', Jim, but I do not take lightly to having one of my people threatened."

Jim tsked and the sound grated on Sherlock's nerves.

"How _is_ the puppy?" he asked. "Oh, don't look so cross, Sherlock! You know I know the rules."

"You have no rules," Sherlock said darkly. Jim leant forward somewhat, giving him a bright, hard edged smile.

"Yes, I know! Isn't it _delightful_?"

"It makes you tedious and bothersome, if that's what you mean."

"And it makes _you_ pedestrian and predictable," Jim snapped back. "I know _my_ rules, Sherlock. And I know yours. Just because I know them doesn't mean I have to _listen_ to them! Honestly, you should know better."

"I do," Sherlock said coolly.

"The puppy wasn't hurt," Jim said casually, shrugging one shoulder.

"If you count having to walk on his injured leg and delaying his recovery as not being hurt, then yes, you'd be correct. However, I am certain that any doctor would disagree with you."

"Your new guard dog, perhaps?"

"First and foremost," Sherlock agreed, thinking nothing personal about John, taking care to think almost nothing about him at all.

"He's a doctor," Jim sighed. "They can run about madly and make our lives miserable, but only if we let them. Anyway, the puppy's back at work."

"Yes."

"And he's found a bitch."

Sherlock couldn't stop the sharp look or the shock that lay underneath it, but the sudden honesty of his reaction slowed Jim up. Sherlock caught the surprise that flitted across Jim's features before they each reasserted control. Sherlock let out a slow breath; that kind of uncertainty around Jim was dangerous – the only balance here was that Jim was as shocked as he had been.

They both stepped back mentally, gauging each other silently.

"You may play what games you want with the police, Jim, but if you so much as look at Gabriel in what I consider a threatening manner, I will put a bullet in your skull."

Jim sighed.

"You did threaten that before," he pointed out.

"Yes. You've had one warning. You may not like the rules, but if you break them, you best cherish the sensation of doing so because it will be the last thing you ever do."

Jim regarded him for a moment, then huffed.

"Really, Sherlock, if I didn't know better, I'd think you loved him."

"Do not mistake your incapacity for emotion as universal, Jim."

"It makes you weak, you know."

"On the contrary, I have a very, very strong urge to simply shoot you now and be done with it."

"Oh, but where would be the fun in that?" Jim pouted. Sherlock set his wine glass down with a quiet but distinctive clink and leant forward.

"I am not in this for your amusement."

"Believe me, I _know_ that. And it's such a pity. Think of everything we could do together!"

"I have. And, rest assured, I'd rather spend the rest of my life in prison."

"That could be arranged," Jim said quickly, voice dropping and darkening.

"As it could be for you. Quid pro quo, Jim. I'm happy to let you play your games but not with my people."

Jim sighed and gave him a put upon look and Sherlock knew he'd won. For now.

"Besides, no. The timing has nothing to do with your ill-fated smugglers."

Jim twitched his eyebrows upward.

"Alessandra is getting married at the end of May."

"Well, I wish him the luck of it," Jim said quickly and it struck Sherlock as possibly the only honest, uncensored thing Jim had ever said to him. He arched an eyebrow and nodded.

"As do I. An Iraqi man, I understand."

"Some promising contacts for you."

"Indeed."

"Another Assyrian vase for your sitting room?"

"Possibly."

"So you move your little meeting of minds to conveniently overlap with your devastation of my Chinese investments."

"You may not believe it, Jim, but not everything I do revolves around you. I do have my own business to run."

"And mine to ruin, it would seem."

Sherlock gave him a brief, bright smile, feeling a stab of triumph that Jim had no idea, that he was sitting here now unaware of the walls crumbling around him.

"And where would be the fun in that?"


	60. Chapter 60

"Sir?"

The door opened and one of his people came in: polished suit, neat hair, anxious expression. Newspaper in hand, carefully folded.

He sat forward, resting his elbows on his desk, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"They found it, sir."

It took one second for the words to sink in. It took less than that for the relief to be spoilt by the other man's expression.

"Where?"

"Ah... better read this, sir." The man crossed the office, passed the newspaper. Not quite front page material for _The Times_. Third page. No sense of consequence, these editors.

**Nine million quid for jade hairpin.**

Jim reread the headline carefully then glanced up at the bearer of bad news, arching an eyebrow. Anxiety bordered on terror, which was _predictable_.

"Out," he said flatly, then sighed when the man hesitated. "_Out._"

He nearly fled, glad to be taking his life with him. Jim turned his glare to Sebastian, who was watching with that waiting patience he feigned _oh so well_.

"And you," Jim said, tone bored with precisely the right undertone of annoyance. Annoyed at the news or annoyed at Sebastian? Always so good to keep them guessing – sometimes he kept himself guessing as well. But his shadow, his right hand, his trigger finger – he left without comment or complaint. Good man – no, well trained. Certainly not a good man. The thought threatened a derailment, amusement, which was unwarranted.

Jim turned back to the news article.

He read it carefully – no need to jump to conclusions, that was always fun, took him out of his boredom, but there was a time and a place for all the facts, even if facts were dull. Dull could be profitable. Dull could be the difference between wasting his time chasing phantoms when the real perpetrator laughed from the wings.

From behind his desk, most likely.

And – with Sherlock – more likely smirking than actual laughter.

The man had the most _irritating_ smirk Jim had ever known. So smug and self-assured. Probably got it from that meddlesome mother of his. Should have paid more attention to her.

He combed the article carefully. No mention of Edward Van Coon – already arrested but not outside Jim's reach. No mention of the Chinese smugglers – of Shan, who had come to England looking for the treasure and who had fallen into it. Sherlock's. Neat. Little. Trap.

No mention of Van Coon's secretary, either – the woman for whom the stolen trinket was obviously intended.

Anonymous donor, anonymous buyer.

Only one man who could possibly know what the treasure was and have the audacity to sell it.

Jim spread the newspaper out on his desk and read the article again.

Then looked up, looked at nothing, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a sharp breath. He set his jaw, shoulders heaving.

Nine million pounds.

_Nine million pounds._

They'd arranged a buyer. Two thirds to Jim, as per their standard agreement.

Six million pounds slipping through his fingers. One tiny jade pin, worn by the right empress at the right time, hidden by the right greedy merchant, sold to the right people.

Stolen by the wrong man.

The only man who _could_.

Manicured nails bit into sensitive flesh, forcing pain that focussed the anger, gave it a sharp edge. Jim inhaled again, releasing his fingers, tension running down the lines of his arms. His office was suddenly silent, oppressive, stale.

But past it he could hear the laughter. He could see the self-satisfied smirk. Another breath, this one hissed, and Sherlock's mocking eyes stared back at him from memory, a smile playing on those lush lips and Jim remembered – _remembered _the arrogant amusement – so much self-satisfaction on a man who wore another man's bruises like badges of honour, like something to be proud of. A man who debased himself, who let others in – all the way in – shameful – but kept Jim at arm's length.

Argued for the rules but didn't listen to them, made threats, denied the game but then made subtle gambits in the dark and –

And then _this_.

A wordless roar and the desk tipped, spilling the contents to the floor. Plastic shattered under the impact, a screen strained and cracked, leaving an empty shell. Pens, files, tea cup and saucer came apart, scattering over the carpet, papers dislodged from files, porcelain shards stolen from the cup. A drawer was yanked out, hurled at the window, tumbling to the floor, adding to the chaos.

Jim strode around the desk, picked up the empty drawer and dashed it against the window again and again and again but the glass held – it could take a bullet, had taken several for him before. He pitched the drawer across the office, at the vase that had been sent specifically from China for him – less than nine million pounds.

The sound it made was like music, ringing in the rushing silence, and he let out another wordless shout, vaulting toward the table that had held it, kicking the drawer out of the way so it slammed into the bookshelf, denting the polished oak. Smashed the table one handed against the same bookshelf until he held jagged splinters then screamed obscenities at the vase, beating it over and over until it was powder, dust, inhaling fine particles of porcelain. He turned and the remnants of the table hit the glass, shuddering against it, dropping to the floor, ignored.

He spun, reaching out blindly, swiping with one arm and it was the books, falling off the shelves to harmonise with the sound of his voice, every word he had learnt in childhood, from his foul-mouthed, disgusting, _stupid_ parents, from the idiot children he'd been imprisoned with at school, from the half-witted neighbours, the brainless teachers and merchants – all of them, so _ignorant_, so _dull_. Irish and English – he knew them all and used them.

And the sound, his voice, the books, the shattering, it didn't stop Sherlock's laughter. Sherlock's silent laughter, watching him with dancing grey eyes.

He pulled a bookshelf down, barely noticed it nearly bounce and shudder against the floor, turned to another, going for the books, the rare, priceless books that had cost him – what? Nothing, nothing – gifts or tribute or spoils. Jim hurled them across the room, daring the window to break, daring the shards to rain down on the unwary pedestrians below, teach them against dismissing _him._

Hands itched – he wished he had something more, a crowbar – so base, so vile, but it would be _so good_, so good right now, to take something and hold it and get his hands _dirty_, smash everything like he wanted to smash Sherlock's face, that beautiful face like marble, like a statue, which could break – break more easily than marble, because it was nothing more than bone.

A crowbar, a bat – a _gun_. Jim scrabbled across the bookshelf to his desk, yanking up drawers, pitching them aside when they came up empty, empty of what he wanted, full of worthless nonsense – why was everything so _useless_, so _boring_? Why didn't Sherlock_ listen_? Who was he, to make these rules, to step past Jim through the shadows and take what wasn't his, to play _his_ game with Jim when denying Jim the chance to play in return?

The door to his office over his shoulder, out of the corner of his eye. Jim held his gaze then – _no_. No, he would not – wouldn't be a gun from Sebastian because there wasn't one to be had here. Wouldn't give anyone else the _satisfaction_, wouldn't let them understand, because they couldn't understand, not really.

No one could understand.

No one but Sherlock.

Snarling, he shuffled through the wreckage, finding the fragile things, the things of grace and beauty, handcrafted by careful artists, made with _love_ and _attention_ and acquainted them with the bare wall behind the fallen bookshelf, one by one, each in silence, never drowning out the laughter only he could hear.

None of his people, none of Sherlock's people. Oh, they could listen and obey and sometimes even get it right – but none of them _understood_. None of them could comprehend the bright knife's edge of genius, the way it shone through everything else, the way it made the world look, all clear silver lines, everyone such open books, so easily read, so easily led. No, they thought themselves above it, thought they were _clever_ working for him, working for Sherlock, but they weren't, not really, it was like a mask they wore, shattered when shown the light.

But Sherlock – _Sherlock let them in_.

First the Frenchman – couldn't be helped, that had been before Jim, but he should have stopped, he should have realised what was being offered – what was pleasure when he could have ecstasy that came from knowing a mind like his?

But it hadn't stopped, no. Then the puppy. They walked about pretending _that_ hadn't happened and people seemed to _believe_ it and it was insulting and demeaning and – he snarled – the puppy wasn't even afraid of him, refusing the offers, looking genius in the face, finding it _lacking_.

Then the singer – _the woman_ – oh yes, that had been a surprise. The pretty little actress – queen of Ireland, _his own home_, and Sherlock had let her in and put her there and who knows _what_ words she'd murmured in his ear in the dead of night?

And now – now – now he walked around London like he owned the place, taking what he wanted, issuing orders to Jim. To him, of all people!

The laughter stopped, abruptly. Jim stopped too, shoulders heaving, looking around, taking in nothing because it was all so much worthless tripe, could be replaced.

A jade hairpin. Nine million pounds.

_His_ nine million pounds, by rights.

He drew a deep breath and held it, then exhaled hard, looking down. Raised his hands to his shoulders and smoothed them down the breast of his suit, brushing aside dust, anger. Westwood. Wouldn't do to ruin it. Having another made? Too much time.

And people touching him. A repressed shudder down his shoulders and then he stilled, looking out the window at the city around him – the sleeping city, not night, no, but everyone asleep in their minds, dreaming their little self-important dreams, sleep walking through their tedious little lives, never opening their eyes, never _looking_ or _understanding_ – because they would not and _could_ not.

But he could.

Not just a city, no. A battlefield.

And now the lines were drawn.

"You want a war, Sherlock?" he murmured in the stillness of his office, gazing at the urban sprawl beyond the unmarked glass. "Then you'll have one."

* * *

><p>"Thank you for breakfast, Uncle Sherlock."<p>

Sherlock looked down at the small boy holding his hand and smiled.

"You're welcome, David," he replied. "I always enjoy spending time with my favourite nephew."

David wrinkled his nose and Sherlock grinned.

"I'm your _only_ nephew."

"But even if you weren't, you would still be my favourite," he said and his nephew considered that for a moment, then beamed at him.

"Can you take me to the park, please?"

"I'm afraid not," Sherlock said, withdrawing his hand so he could smooth it over the boy's light curls. "I have meetings to attend all day."

"That sounds boring."

"Oh, it's not as bad as all that," Sherlock replied, his lips curling upward again. He slid into the car and Gerald shut the door softly behind him before moving around to the other side to get David settled. As his driver worked, Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a message to Gabriel.

_The basement. Is it done?_

It was less than a minute before Gabriel replied.

_Done._

Sherlock glanced out the tinted window, pressed a gloved hand lightly against his lips, and smiled.


	61. Chapter 61

"You're joking, right?"

"What is there to joke about?"

"Have you ever cooked anything in your life?"

Sherlock sniffed, looking offended, and Gabriel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He sat down, dragged another chair over to prop his leg up and received a pointed look for his efforts. He met it with one of his own; it wasn't as though Sherlock was the one cleaning his floors and dealing with any scuff marks.

"Of course I've cooked before," Sherlock answered, his tone cool.

"Oh really?" Gabriel asked. "And what is it, may I ask, that you've cooked? Coffee and tea don't count, you know. You have this giant kitchen and the _only_ things you can make are coffee and tea. And you have machines to do the coffee for you."

Sherlock shot him an ineffective glare and Gabriel grinned. His boss and best friend had acquired an apron from somewhere. Gabriel wondered where he'd got that – not just the apron but the idea that he should be wearing one.

He thought about taking a picture but decided he valued his life more than he would enjoy the short moment of amusement.

"I've made other things," Sherlock muttered, consulting his phone again and scowling slightly at the tiny screen.

"Such as?"

"Beans on toast."

Gabriel stared at him for a moment, then dropped his head into one hand, shoulders shaking as he began to laugh.

"Beans on toast? Beans on toast! Anyone can make beans on toast! When did you do that, then? When you were five?"

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed.

"Oh, sorry, four."

"No," his boss replied in a frosty tone and Gabriel looked up, grin widening. "It was four days ago."

The younger man burst into peals of laughter again, ignoring the muttered threats, then managed to calm himself with hard effort.

"Four days ago," he said, his resolve threatening to crack again. "You mastered the most basic of English dishes four days ago and now you've trying to make coq au vin?"

"I am not _trying_ to make it," Sherlock snapped. "I _am_ making it."

"Of course, my mistake, sorry," Gabriel said, still grinning and chuckling. "You have a cook, Sherlock. Why on Earth would you think to do this yourself? She could do it – and get it right."

"I haven't got it wrong," Sherlock retorted. "And I am doing this because–" He stopped abruptly with a mild glare at his phone.

"Because..." Gabriel prompted.

Sherlock sniffed again and straightened, his features settling into a look of haughty disdain that Gabriel saw right through.

"I thought it would be inappropriate to have John for dinner on our first date and not prepare the meal myself."

"He told you to cook, didn't he?" Gabriel asked. Sherlock hesitated and Gabriel saw the flicker in his grey eyes even though his gaze never wavered.

"No."

"Liar."

"All right, fine, yes. He asked me to do the cooking."

"Asked?"

Sherlock sighed as though put upon and raised his eyes toward the ceiling. Gabriel chuckled; John Watson had just earned a whole new level of appreciation in his book.

"Fine. Told."

"I think the last person who told you to do something who you actually listened to was your mum."

"I listen to you," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes, because you pay me to make decisions so you don't have to do all of the work. That's my _job_. If I told you to make me something to eat, you'd either put a tin of soup in a pot – a whole tin, unopened – or you'd order take away. Or you'd make _me_ order take away."

"I am not trying to impress you," Sherlock muttered.

"I know," Gabriel replied with another grin. "It's cute."

"What?" Sherlock demanded, snapping his gaze back to the younger man, eyes blazing. "It is _not_ 'cute'! Besides," he retaliated. "You don't cook."

"I don't cook right now," Gabriel corrected. "You might have noticed I was shot in the leg? Do you remember that? You see the cast and the crutches? I do know how to cook and I do it when I can. How else do you think I'd eat?"

"If you had any sense at all, you'd hire a cook as well."

Gabriel shrugged.

"I can do it myself and when I'm too busy working, I can order take away. And Sandra likes to cook and she's a lot better it than I am."

"Another point," Sherlock said, gesturing at him with a very sharp knife that made Gabriel glad he was seated a good few metres away, out of reach of Sherlock's casual treatment of potential weapons. "Why aren't you at work?"

"For one thing, it's Friday evening. For another, I'm still on modified duty. Six hours a day, remember? And I should point out I'm getting a lot done in those six hours."

Sherlock huffed in displeasure and set back to work on the elaborate meal. Gabriel wondered if John knew what he was in for – which was very likely going to be take away in a smoke-filled flat if Sherlock got this wrong. Leave it to the genius to pick the most complicated thing he could find for his first real attempt a cooking – beans and toast not withstanding.

_Doesn't do anything by halves,_ Gabriel thought with a dry smile.

"Yes, I remember," Sherlock said. "It's been a week, you must be able to resume your regular duties by now. I'll be sure to talk to John about that tonight."

"What?" Gabriel demanded, his attention suddenly focusing hard. "No, you absolutely will not."

Sherlock looked up at him, surprise flickering over his features.

"I understand there will still be tasks you can't manage until you can walk again, but–"

"That's not what I meant," Gabriel said, cutting him off, and Sherlock's lips depressed into a puzzled frown. "He's your _date_, Sherlock."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. And?"

Gabriel sighed, wondering once again how someone so incredibly intelligent could be so amazingly dim at the same time.

"Your _date_," he stressed again. "You're making him this elaborate meal – hopefully – because you're interested in him. You're not going to talk about business. You're not going to talk about his work. You're certainly _not_ going to talk about me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly.

"You're instructing me on my conversation topics?"

"Too bloody right I am. You're going to talk about _him_, Sherlock. Maybe yourself a bit. But not work!"

"What do you mean, talk about him?"

Gabriel sighed, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table.

"Ask him questions about himself. His family, his life growing up, his interests. Anything like that."

"I fail to see why I should. I don't need to ask him these things. I already know all about him."

"No you don't," Gabriel countered. "You know what you've read in his files and what you've observed and deduced."

"Yes. As I said, I know all about him."

"Sherlock, the whole 'let me tell you your life's story' is great for impressing someone when you first meet them – I know you love it when we're all in awe of your intellect – but you need to get to know John. I don't mean you telling him all about himself. I mean letting him tell you about himself."

"Why would I need to do that if I already know?"

"Because there are things you don't know. Yes there are, don't give me that look. And he needs to get to know you, too. This isn't a matter of filling in necessary time between him getting here and you managing to get him into bed. It's about getting to know him, getting to be his friend."

"I don't want to be friends," Sherlock said and Gabriel rolled his eyes.

"If you want to be his partner, you have to be his friend, too. It's not separable."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, regarding him almost suspiciously.

"What do you and Sandra talk about?" he asked.

"Everything," Gabriel replied, shrugging. "Hobbies, interests, likes, dislikes, family, friends, school, growing up, her job."

"But not your job."

"No," Gabriel said carefully. "Not my job. But John knows what you do. You don't need to give him the detail you'd give me – and he probably won't ask about it. Just be open to talking about yourself and asking about him. That's all I'm saying."

Sherlock sighed and set down his knife then moved his phone out of the way. For a moment, Gabriel wondered if he was going to abandon the whole thing – not the cooking, but the date with John, the possibility of a relationship. It took effort and not the kind of effort Sherlock enjoyed. He'd never done this before, precisely because it was complicated and messy and unpredictable.

He pursed his lips, wondering if he should say anything. The problem with Sherlock was that simple things bored him, but personally complex things often did, too. If he couldn't see a way through an interaction, he tended to abandon it.

"Why do people _do_ this?" he snapped, half to himself, half to Gabriel.

_Because the rest of us aren't brilliant criminal geniuses who view relationships as something to be manipulated for personal gain_, he thought, but out loud he said:

"It won't always be this way, you know. It gets easier."

Sherlock shot him a suspicious look.

"If you put effort into it." He didn't miss the faint, irritated sigh. "It's not like it will just be you, Sherlock. John's not going to just sit there and wait for you to do all the work, you know."

At this, Sherlock looked surprised and Gabriel withheld a sigh – of course he thought he'd be in charge.

"It's not a business transaction, remember. You got on with me well right from the start."

"Yes, but I–"

"You what?"

"I don't expect anything from you."

"Bollocks, you expect far more from me than any reasonable human being would. You just don't expect me or want me to shag you. Look, Sherlock, you're a genius. If the rest of us can muddle through, so can you."

Sherlock's lips twitched and Gabriel felt the atmosphere lighten. He exhaled a deep breath, glad the levity had returned. He hadn't imagined that he'd ever be giving basic dating tips to a man seven years his senior – especially a man like Sherlock.

_Be glad it's a dating talk and not a sex talk_, he thought and was unable to repress his snicker.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again and Gabriel grinned and shook his head.

"Nothing," he said again. He reached for his crutches and pushed himself to his feet, balancing out of well practiced habit.

"I'll leave you to it, then. Good luck. Do _not_ come and get me if it doesn't turn out."

"It will be fine," Sherlock assured him with cool certainty.

"Says the man who mastered beans and toast just this week."

"As you said, I'm a genius. We learn quickly. I run a multinational criminal organisation. I can manage cooking one dinner."

Gabriel rolled his eyes again as he headed out of the kitchen.

"In that case, you might want to make sure whatever's in the oven isn't burning. I smell smoke."

He chuckled as he left, listening to the panicked sounds of Sherlock cursing and pulling something frantically out of oven.

* * *

><p>It was going to be a long night.<p>

They were all long nights now.

When Veronique closed her eyes, she saw Euro notes making up the crumbling columns of the Parthenon, their colours fading as the wind swirled the ancient ruin into the sapphire water of the Mediterranean.

And she would wake herself up, make herself another pot of coffee and keep working.

She could scarcely remember the layout of her flat most days, nor the feel of her bed. There were times when she be alarmed, certain she'd forgotten what Paul looked like, then someone would send her home and he would let her sleep before ordering her to eat.

When she had a free moment, she would look into Chauvière, look into his company. There was no one who could do this for her now – no one had the time. She'd been tracking his stay in London – he'd checked out of his hotel and returned to Paris just this morning. Private car from Charles de Galle then back to work. For all appearances, a model French citizen.

There was almost nothing on his company – some information obtained by the _gens d'armes_ for her – even less on the London headquarters. Mentions here and there, stockholder reports, sales of shares, contact numbers for potential customers interested in property abroad, information on tax laws in the European Union.

And then – almost accidentally – some information on the president and CEO. Sherlock Holmes. She frowned, odd name, but he was English. They were all odd. No Interpol record. A quick search revealed no Europol record. She checked her potential cyber tails to see who might be monitoring and set up some diversions then checked his passport.

The picture made her pause.

Pale skin, pale eyes, dark hair, poor quality photo, but they all were. There was something – familiar. Veronique's frown deepened, dark eyes flickering over the picture displayed on the monitor, one hand reaching to pick up her coffee without thinking, putting it aside because it was cold.

_I know you_, she thought.

But the name wasn't a familiar one and the memory was distant.

Something about – noise.

Veronique closed her eyes and listened to herself.

Noise, voices, a crowded area, people talking, odd harmonics – _English_ – a crowd of English speakers – English _people_, London. Colours – blacks and whites and glittering gems and riots of colour in silk and satin – formal dress. Men in tuxedos or suits, women in evening gowns, sparking jewels on bared throats, bared wrists, dangling from ears. Formal event – banquet, ball – _gala._

A gala in London, but when? She followed the memory again, heard the music. Music, no singing, not the opera. The symphony. The sound of laughter – intermission. The faint clink of champagne, waiters in white waistcoats gliding by, empty glasses on expertly raised trays.

She looked around in her memory, found herself where she'd been, standing in the crowd, smoking a cigarette.

And – there. There he was, tall, dark hair, fair skin, like some paint or a statue someone had dressed and taught to move around. Drinking champagne, speaking to someone. The way his lips moved – some of it was French. A few sentences only. She felt irritation, but why?

The man he was speaking to, it annoyed her. A suspect? An undercover agent?

She watched her memory of him look up, look at her, look past her. Green eyes registering her presence, trying not to.

Veronique's eyes snapped open, staring at Holmes' picture on the screen.

She _had_ seen him before.

It was a small world, she knew. But not that small.


	62. Chapter 62

John could have used a moment at the door to prepare himself (a tug on his cuffs, a check of his breath, a hand to smooth his hair…) but the security in the lobby had rung up to let Sherlock know John was coming – he didn't even have to raise his hand to knock before the door was being pulled open and Sherlock was smiling down at him.

"Evening," John said, relaxing slightly when he saw his date. He noticed Sherlock hesitate for just a fraction of a second and surprise flared through him. Was Sherlock Holmes actually nervous?

_God, what does _he_ have to be nervous about?_ John asked himself.

"Hello, John," Sherlock replied, shaking the doctor back to reality. "Come in."

He held the door solicitously until John was in before locking it behind them.

"Your jacket?" he asked and John nodded, peeling it off and handing it over. Sherlock's gaze swept over him, a brief look of disappointment crossing his features. John looked down at himself quickly, but his Oxford shirt was clean and unwrinkled, as were his trousers.

"No jumper," Sherlock commented and John looked up quickly again.

"No. Well, I wanted to look good."

Sherlock nodded, hanging his coat. John felt a stab of regret – should he have gone with the jumper? He felt ridiculous all of a sudden, fretting about his clothing. He didn't need to impress Sherlock – the man had seen him in everything from his underwear to a bespoke suit.

He followed Sherlock down the hall to the kitchen, inhaling deeply. The aroma of chicken and spices permeated the air and it smelled delicious. He felt another flash of surprise, this one more pleasant. Had Sherlock actually managed to make dinner? John wasn't sure he'd really been expecting that – if he thought about it, he'd anticipated something order in at the last minute. Sherlock had said he had someone to do his cooking for him. John didn't see anyone else in evidence, though – not this time. No clothing scattered about the living room, he noted. No strangers in the archway that led back to the bedrooms.

"They look good on you, you know," Sherlock said abruptly, glancing over his shoulder.

"What?" John asked.

"Your jumpers. They suit you."

"Yes," John managed, trying to follow the train of thought. "You've said before."

"It bears repeating."

Sherlock walked away, leaving John a couple of stunned steps behind, before he picked up his pace and followed hurriedly into the kitchen.

When he stepped inside, he decided to let surprise be his default setting for the evening – the kitchen was gleaming. He wondered how much effort had gone into the washing up and if anyone had been called in to help with that. Judging by the general mess on Sherlock's office desk, John was willing to bet the other man was not a tidy cook.

"It seems I've timed it well," Sherlock commented. "It needs ten more minutes. Would you like some wine?"

"Ah... yes, please," John replied. Sherlock beckoned and John followed him into the dining room for yet another small shock. The lights were dim on the small but elegant chandelier that hung from the ceiling and the table had been carefully set. There was even a small, tasteful centrepiece and two long tapered candles burning gently. Something in the ordered way it was laid out made John think Sherlock had done this; it was so perfectly accomplished that he had a sudden mental image of Sherlock carefully following instructions from a website – and probably recalling the appearance from his own childhood.

Sherlock selected a bottle of wine from several that were set on the sideboard and poured John a glass.

_He has a sideboard_, John thought. He remembered the mess at Bastion suddenly, the long lines of men with utilitarian metal trays, waiting to be served before finding places on row benches. He thought of his own flat, where he'd dish himself up his food straight from the pot and eat in the living room more often than not.

Of course, this was probably casual for Sherlock. There was no one to pour the wine for him, no one to serve the meal. His lips twitched at that thought as he accepted the wine from Sherlock. The single glass was probably the most expensive that John had ever had to drink in his life.

_Scratch that_, he thought when he sipped it. _It _is_ the most expensive._ He took another sip, savouring the sensation, then warned himself not to go too quickly. He needed to keep his head – he didn't want to end up making a fool of himself.

There had been enough of that for one week as it was.

_Still_, he thought, _it led to you being here._

"I believe it's ready," Sherlock said and John refocused, realising that a chair had been pulled out for him. He felt another flash of surprise and tried to remind himself not to bother feeling that anymore. He sat down and helped adjust the chair, then remembered his manners.

"Do you need any help?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said, disappearing into the kitchen, his deep baritone voice trailing behind him. "You're my guest after all."

As the food was brought in he couldn't help peering curiously into the pots – "Coq au vin with roasted potatoes and asparagus," Sherlock announced imperiously, catching his look. John could only smile in return, watching Sherlock's deft hands dish it out. It smelt delicious, and he was glad to note its simplicity, not quite trusting his stomach for the nerves that hadn't settled. And yet, he couldn't help but wonder where Sherlock had found asparagus at this time of year.

"It smells amazing," he said, wincing inwardly – he could have used a better word, because amazing didn't cut it. _Delectable_, he thought.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied as he set to fixing himself a plate. John noted with no small amount of shock that even Sherlock's presentation was flawless.

_Did he practice that?_ John wondered, sniggering inwardly, then told himself to behave.

"You made all this?" he couldn't help asking.

"Of course," Sherlock said, glancing up from the preparation of his own plate. "You did ask me to cook for you."

"Yes, but–" John started, then glanced over the meal spread out for them, almost at a loss for words. "I thought you said you don't do your own cooking."

"I don't," Sherlock confirmed.

"And you started with this?"

"Should I have begun with something else?" Sherlock asked and John heard the faint uncertainty in his voice.

"No, no," John assured him. "It's just– most people wouldn't start with something so complicated."

"I'm not most people," Sherlock sniffed, taking his seat. John grinned.

"I've noticed."

He hesitated, then picked up his knife and fork, hoping he'd got the right ones. Sherlock seemed to have been waiting for him because he mirrored the action with more practiced ease. John exhaled a quiet sigh – apparently, he'd been correct.

He cut into the chicken and resisted the urge to close his eyes and inhale deeply. The sudden intensity of the aroma made his mouth water but he forced himself not to move too quickly – he didn't want to seem rude and impatient.

But when he bit into the tender meat, he couldn't help his eyes widening and his left hand raising to press itself against his lips.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded immediately, concerning darkening his voice. "Too hot? Is it the taste?"

John managed to shake his head, then forced himself to chew and swallow quickly – he had wanted to savour the sensation, to just sit there and let it overwhelm his taste buds, but the look of distress on Sherlock's face needed to be alleviated fast.

"Oh my god," he managed when he'd swallowed, and shook his head again as he dropped his hand back to the table. "No, it's– how is this the first meal you've ever cooked?"

The alarm shifted to confusion and Sherlock's grey eyes narrowed slightly, glinting in the candlelight.

"This is some of–" John cut himself off, thinking back to the dinner he'd had with Harry on his birthday, the one Sherlock had arranged for him. He thought of the first real meal he'd had after being released from the hospital, then the first time he'd gone to visit his mother and the dinner she'd cooked for him.

"This is _the_ best food I've ever had. In my life," he corrected and Sherlock's eyes widened somewhat, surprise flashing over his angular features. "The best, bar none."

"You've only had one bite," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah, and I already know," John replied and didn't miss the faint hint of pride around the corners of Sherlock's eyes, his lips. "How on Earth did you do that? You've never cooked before! You managed to make something complicated and time consuming _and_ make it better than anything I've ever eaten! Did you also miss your calling as a chef when you decided on a life of crime? You could have been famous!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, the corners of his lips curling upward.

"I am famous. In the right circles."

John put his fork down and took another sip of wine to steady himself.

"You could have had your own cooking show," he commented.

"Why would I want that?" Sherlock murmured. "Seems dull." John repressed a smile as he picked his fork up again and went back to eating – how many people would see the possibility of having their own television show as dull?

_Probably the same people who find sky diving dull_, he thought.

He managed to make it through the meal without repeatedly commenting on how astounding the food was. The astonishment made him forget about being nervous altogether, almost made him forget that he was on a date with another man for the first time in fifteen years – and a beautiful criminal genius at that. His attention was caught in a war between Sherlock sitting across from him – eating with graceful self-assurance – and the meal in front of him. All too soon it seemed over and John regretted that he couldn't have eaten another bite. He'd have dreams about this meal, he knew.

_Good thing I'm never going back to Afghanistan_, he thought. _The memory would drive me mad._

Sherlock rose to clear the table and John was just about to offer to help when an expression of near panic crossed the other man's face.

"What is it?" John asked.

"I didn't think to make dessert," Sherlock replied, meeting John's eyes carefully. John hesitated, then started to laugh, seeing the flash of confusion in Sherlock's eyes.

"It's okay," he assured him. "I couldn't eat another bite. And I'm not much of a sweets eater."

Sherlock looked unconvinced for a moment then nodded, the concern vanishing from his features. John stood and helped him take the dishes and remaining food into the kitchen, brushing off any protests.

"Do you want me to do the washing up?" he offered, setting his plate on the counter, piling Sherlock's on top of it. "You did the cooking after all."

"No, I'll have someone come in and take care of it tomorrow," Sherlock replied. "Unless, of course, that is also against your rules."

John glanced over his shoulder with a grin.

"Are we playing by my rules now?" he asked.

"For now," Sherlock murmured in reply, his voice low, and John's smile vanished as a shock of desire coursed through him. He didn't miss the corresponding gleam in Sherlock's eyes and looked away quickly, exhaling a slow, deliberate breath.

"Well, let me know when we're not," he said, careful not to look up.

"Wouldn't you rather figure that out for yourself?" Sherlock asked by way of reply and John couldn't quite repress the shudder that ran down his spine. He pursed his lips, not trusting his voice to stay steady if he were to answer. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on the back of his neck and the heat and intensity were doing nothing good for his self control.

"More wine?" Sherlock enquired.

"Um, yes please," John replied, jumping on the change of subject. He gripped the counter when he heard Sherlock's footsteps faded into the dining room again. John set his jaw and sucked in a deep breath – Sherlock had barely said anything suggestive and already his resolve was wearing down. Drawing on years of training, John steadied himself when he heard Sherlock coming back and turned to accept his wine glass.

He followed Sherlock into the living room and sank onto the couch, grateful to be off slightly shaky legs. Sherlock hesitated, looking uncertain for a moment, then settled at the other end of the sofa. John found himself alternating between relief and disappointment – wanting Sherlock closer but also wanting him to stay where he was.

The younger man refilled his own glass of wine then sipped it and John realised suddenly he had no idea what to do. He set down his glass and tugged absently at his shirt cuffs, noting that Sherlock's eyes followed the movements, and felt another absurd flash of discomfort, almost guilt. Now he wished he had worn a jumper. Somehow, he thought he might have felt more at ease.

It was shocking to realise how long it had been since he'd been on date and he tried desperately to remember what he'd talked about on dates in the past. But it was all basic things – jobs, interests, childhoods – and he knew those things about Sherlock.

And they'd never had this problem before; there always seemed to be something to talk about. Sherlock was a master at starting an interesting conversation and John wondered if maybe his date was waiting for him to step up and say something engaging. When he met Sherlock's eyes, the younger man was watching him almost critically and John felt his mouth go dry as his mind scrambled to come up with something intelligent to say. Before he could manage that, however, Sherlock said:

"Tell me about yourself."

Then he winced and looked appalled and John stared. It was such a typical first date line from a man to whom "typical" had probably never applied. And who already knew everything about him.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something then reconsidered, pursing his lips. John felt something inside of him unwind a little bit and reached for his wine glass again.

"This is a bit – odd, isn't it?" he asked. Sherlock gave him a cutting look but then nodded once, curtly.

"Have you ever done this before?" John asked.

"Had a conversation with someone? A number of times, yes."

"Been on a date."

Sherlock hesitated.

"No," he admitted. John nodded slowly, trying to convince his mind to speed itself up a bit.

"It's been awhile for me," he said.

"Yes, I know."

"You know? How do you know?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly as if the question confused him and gave John a puzzled look.

"You were shot on the sixteenth of October and sent to Birmingham within seventy-two hours after you were deemed stable enough to be transferred. You spent three weeks in the hospital and were then discharged into an out-patient facility on site. Then you were transferred to a halfway house on the outskirts of the city to recover while living on a meagre army pension. You were housed in a complex with wounded or otherwise homeless soldiers, the preponderance of whom would be male. You were hurt by another man in the past so it has been some time since you've dated men, so the others at the halfway house were not options for you. Unless, of course, I am very much missing the mark about Jamie's preferences and your relationship with him."

John raised his eyebrows and fought down a smile.

"No," he said. "Definitely no. To both."

Sherlock nodded.

"Given how little money you made and your therefore limited social activities, it's unlikely you met anyone while living there – nor could you really have afforded the luxury of dating. When you began working for me, you were certainly making enough money to date, but you didn't. You never once smelled of a woman's perfume and nor did you flat ever exhibit any of the small evidence that meant you had overnight company. No items left behind, no additional dishes or cutlery used, and again, no perfume. Then you became attracted to me but avoided falling into the trap of trying to date someone else to displace that attraction. Conclusion: it has been at least six months since you have been on a date."

John smiled slightly, shaking his head.

"How do you do that?" he asked.

"Do what?"

John gestured vaguely with one hand, as if that could encompass what he meant.

"That – all of that. You can tell my dating habits – well, lack of dating habits – just by where I've been and what was or wasn't in my flat? It's not like you've been in my flat much, either."

"That was reasonably simple," Sherlock contradicted. "It's a matter of observation, John. You do it quite well yourself."

"What? Nothing like that."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"The first time I met you, you assessed a complete stranger's injury within minutes despite the added stress of two unknown, somewhat threatening men in your home."

John opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"All right, but I'm trained to do that," he said. Sherlock shrugged lightly.

"And I trained myself to do this. Admittedly my skills are vastly superior to the majority of the population because my intellect is also, but it can be learnt to a certain extent." He paused and John was going to ask more about it, but he didn't have a chance to do so before Sherlock asked abruptly: "What was it like?"

"What was what like?" John replied.

"Being shot."


	63. Chapter 63

"What was it like?" Sherlock heard himself ask. He'd been unaware of the question poised on his tongue until he'd spoken it and was faintly shocked by the sensation.

"What was what like?" John asked.

"Being shot."

John stared at him as though uncertain he'd heard right.

"What did it feel like?" Sherlock pressed. He hadn't asked Gabriel – he hadn't even thought to. Gabriel had been shot, operated on, and would recover. He wondered now if it had been an oversight on his part. Perhaps he should have enquired?

"Other than the pain, I mean," Sherlock clarified. John's brow furrowed and his eyes slid away for a moment. Perhaps he should retract the question? But he wanted to know – and he did not know this about John. Wasn't that the point of this exercise?

"It was – hot."

"Hot?"

"Hot," John repeated. "Like being hit by a burning sledgehammer. That's what I remember, the impact and the heat. I never thought – I never thought the actual blow would be like that – it's not like in films, you know, where a bullet will send someone flying across the room. But that's what it felt like. And it was so – shocking. I wasn't expecting it. I mean, of course I wasn't. I always thought at the back of my mind I was half expecting it, but I had no idea. I didn't even know what happened – I remember looking down and there was blood everywhere and I thought it was someone else's. Because I'm used to that, having other people's blood on me. When you're a surgeon, you stop noticing after awhile. But then – then Bill was there and he was screaming at me and I thought it was him that had been shot."

"Bill?"

"Yeah, Bill Murray. The nurse who saved my life."

"I thought Captain Remsen was your surgeon."

"She was," John agreed. "It's all – The memories are all messed up, out of order. When I remember it, she was there at the same time as Bill and they were both yelling at me – you know, telling me to stay with them, stay awake, telling me I'd be fine. That sort of thing. But it wasn't – I asked Bill about it once. She wasn't right there; he had to carry me out to get to her. It _feels_ like she was right there, but that's how the brain works in this kind of situation. Everything gets all... jumbled up. And I don't remember a lot of it. I remember praying." John paused and gave a dry chuckle. "The things you do when you think it's over. I hadn't prayed in years, hadn't even really thought about what I believed. But I was willing to beg then."

"Do you miss it?"

"What, having been shot?"

"Of course not. Afghanistan."

John hesitated, glancing away again.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "I miss– yeah, there's a lot I miss. The adrenaline. The pace. The uncertainty, never knowing when things would change. And the smaller stuff, too. You know, once I was out on a week long mission with Doctors Without Borders and I delivered a baby. Middle of nowhere. The mum couldn't have been more than eighteen and I shouldn't have even been there – a foreigner and a man – but it didn't matter. I held that baby and I remembered thinking how bloody amazing it was, in the middle of all the killing, this tiny little thing." John smiled, his eyes far away. "He'd be almost a year old now."

Sherlock was astounded – he'd seen the notation in John's file that he'd spent that week with MSF but the delivery of a child hadn't been included. He himself hadn't been there when David had been born, of course, but he'd flown up to Edinburgh later that day to meet his nephew. Everything had been very orderly and sterile in the way of hospitals – the proper way, in his opinion – and there had been nothing shocking about it.

"But then when I think about being there – usually the first thing I remember is getting shot. When I worked at Birmingham, I didn't really understand what it was like for the guys coming back. Not really. You go from your life and the war to this– this numbness, this purgatory. You're just... useless. It was hell. It was hell for me, it was hell for Jamie, but at least I could bloody talk about how fucking terrible it was."

John seemed to come back to himself, shaking his head and rubbing his forehead.

"Sorry. I shouldn't– Not exactly first date conversation. Sorry."

"Why did you stay?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" John asked, confused, a crease forming between his eyes just above the bridge of his nose. Sherlock resisted the temptation to lean forward and smooth it away with his thumb, could imagine what that would feel like so vividly he wondered if he'd already done it. No, he realised with some shock, the only two times he'd really touched John were to kiss him in his flat. Each time, John had ended the contact abruptly.

Sherlock wondered what it would feel like when he didn't.

He made himself refocus.

"At the hospital in Birmingham. Why did you stay in out patient housing after you'd been discharged? I've read your medical records; you were well enough to be transferred to a halfway house at that point."

"You read my–" John started, then cut himself with a shake of his head. "Okay. Right. Of course you did. Why am I surprised?"

"An excellent question," Sherlock replied. "It does not answer mine, however."

John sighed.

"I stayed because Jamie was still there," he said. Sherlock frowned slightly, watching John take a sip of his wine, wishing his lips could be there in place of the glass. He refocused yet again with an inward scowl – this wouldn't do. He was fairly certain conversation was important here, although it was not at all what he was used to.

"Surely you weren't his doctor, being injured yourself."

"No," John agreed, features lined with confusion again. "Of course not."

"Then why stay?"

John gave him a long look, as if he couldn't quite comprehend why Sherlock was asking.

"I stayed because he'd fixed disabled vehicles I was travelling in, racing against sunset, so we could get back to base before it got too dark. I stayed because it was either that or we were both alone and I was selfish and needed someone just as much as he did. I stayed because he's my friend, Sherlock."

The vehemence in John's voice surprised him – this wasn't the John he was used to, he realised. This was someone else's John. It made him uncomfortable.

No, he realised with an inward jolt. It made him jealous.

More shocking was the possessiveness underlying John's tone – Sherlock had known John was a solidly loyal man. He hadn't considered that loyalty and possessiveness could be two sides of the same coin but he saw it now. He'd known it in himself for eight years but had never put a name to it – and had never imagined that anyone else might truly feel that way about his loved ones. Sherlock had played on that apparent steadfastness in others but had never seriously considered that it had the same depth or strength.

He'd thought himself unique in that regard. He was a genius, after all. His reactions were not like other people's.

It was shocking to realise he was completely wrong.

"Ah," he said and John's lips quirked into a dry smile. Sherlock paused, casting about desperately for something else to ask that would draw the subject back to John alone and came up with:

"Why did you join the army?"

Which was ridiculous, because he already knew. A man like John Watson? It was easy enough to figure out, had taken him less than a minute to deduce after meeting the man in his wretched little bed sit.

"I wanted to help people," John said.

"And did you?"

"I like to think so. I saved a lot of lives but I know some of those people were sent back out to die. And I know some of those people were sent home only to die anyway."

"Doesn't that bother you? Doesn't it seem–"

"What?" John asked.

"Futile," Sherlock answered, somewhat reluctantly. John hesitated, eyes darting away, and Sherlock felt a moment of panic that he'd overstepped some boundary. The sensation was shocking in its unfamiliarity and he tried to remember the last time it had worried him – he didn't think it ever had.

"A bit," John admitted and Sherlock exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "But I'm a doctor. We all face that. There's nothing you can do to change it. People die – everyone dies, in the end. The question is when. And I saved a lot of lives, Sherlock. Lives of people that will go on living and come home and have families and be happy and grow old. That's what I think about, when I think about it. If I thought about everyone who died, I'd only end up depressing myself.

"Why are you asking all these questions anyway?" Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but John kept speaking. "Usually with you, it's deduction, deduction, deduction, then you let me fill in any little gaps."

Sherlock resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably – he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that way, either.

"I'm only attempting to get to know you better."

"Oh," John said, realisation dawning in his eyes, a smile tugging on his lips. "I get it."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously as John sipped his wine.

"And what, precisely, do you 'get'?"

"I got dressed up and you're trying to behave. We're both trying to impress one another."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. He should have been the one to see that.

"Well perhaps if you take your shirt off, I'd be inclined to misbehave."

John stared at him, then started to laugh suddenly, the tension dissolving as he put his glass aside and leant back against the couch cushions.

"I bet you would," he agreed, chuckling. "But I don't usually strip down on a first date."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed a sigh.

"I've already seen you in your underwear, John."

"Well hang onto that memory, then, because that's as close as you're getting tonight." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in a challenge but John shook his head. "Anyway, why don't you tell me why I joined the army? Forget trying to be polite, Sherlock. If I wanted polite I'd – well, I wouldn't be here on a date with you."

Sherlock ignored the joking slight and set his own wine glass aside, fixing his gaze on the doctor.

"You were drawn to helping people from a young age which was reinforced in your adolescence by your sister's burgeoning problems with alcoholism. You're an intelligent man as well, but you're practical, hands-on. A life of research wouldn't suit you – you're far too active, too interested in adventure. Being a doctor – specifically, a surgeon – allowed you to tap into those interests and abilities. Being an army surgeon even more so. If you'd stayed here and taken a job in an A&E, you certainly would have been helping people but you had a long held desire to serve in the military, possibly because of a grandfather... your father's father, I imagine. Not your father – he was neither a doctor nor in the military, but there was some family connection."

John nodded and Sherlock kept going.

"So likely you grew up on stories from World War Two – was your grandfather a doctor as well as a soldier?"

"A medic," John replied. "He became a doctor after the war, though."

"So you took your inspiration from him. You knew the realities of war – couldn't avoid that, listening a medic's stories – so it wasn't the supposed glory you were after, but a real desire to help people. You were stationed at the hospital in Birmingham after completing university so you had some first hand idea of what to expect. But it wasn't enough, because you were safe in England. You wanted to be out on the front lines. You wanted the adrenaline rush, the thrill, the uncertainty of it all."

"Did I?" John asked.

"You still do. You took a job with an obviously criminal man you barely knew. Part of the job entails guarding a woman against her ex-husband's criminal associates, and your first patient was shot in the leg by one of said associates _and_ managed to fire back. Your first day on the job introduced you to Jim Moriarty. Yet you haven't quit. Why? Because – aside from the pay and your sister's debt – the job is _fun._ Risky. Granted, most of your days are not made complete by impromptu visits from my business rivals, but you are still employed in a job where you are needed because we cannot always go to the hospital without attracting the attention of the police.

"And you are interested in me because I epitomise all of these things – the danger, the intrigue, the adventure. Well that and I'm stunningly intelligent. And just stunning."

John's smile grew into a grin and he regarded Sherlock with dancing eyes for a moment.

"I never had a chance, did I?" he asked.

"Sorry?"

"Most people, when they flirt, they send text messages or tell little jokes or buy a drink for the person they're interested in. You... you arrange bodyguards for soldiers overseas, you give my best friend a job so he doesn't have to live on a tiny pension, you buy me two bespoke suits. I'm probably lucky you didn't realise you were interested in me – it would have been like trying to stand against an invading army."

"You invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock sniffed.

"Yeah, but not by myself," John replied, still grinning. "Although I bet if you'd put your mind to that, you could have done that, too. Good lord, maybe we're all lucky you do this and didn't go into government. We'd have a second empire."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, really. That's an exaggeration. Besides, I've no desire to be saddled with that sort of responsibility."

"Would have thought you'd like the power," John commented. Sherlock snorted derisively.

"How much power do you imagine our monarch has, as illustrious as she is? No real authority, not when you come down to it. And to have one's days planned out in such detail, to be constantly surrounded by security, to not be able to slip away whenever one wants? Dull, John. A gilded cage."

"Maybe Prime Minister then," John said with a grin.

"Hardly. I don't wish to answer to anybody. It's so much simpler to give orders and have them followed, to have trained my people myself so that I can ensure every order is carried out correctly."

John's grin grew and his eyes sparkled.

"Always one for being in control, aren't you?"

Sherlock paused, watching John finish his wine.

"No," he said carefully. "Not always."

He saw the flash of confusion in John's face then the slow moment of realisation – shock mixed with a stirring of desire. John licked his lips, the movement more surprised than wanting, but Sherlock felt a faint shudder run through him.

"Not always," John repeated, his lips barely moving as he spoke, but Sherlock's eyes stayed trained on them.

"Not always," Sherlock confirmed and saw John draw in a deep breath. He knew what would follow that – the doctor would steel himself, fall back on his army training, fight to keep his balance. The moment would be lost because John – who accused him of always wanting control – would exert control over himself.

He leant forward, setting his wine glass aside with a fluid movement, not letting his eyes follow the motion. John's eyes stayed focussed on him, darkening slightly, hesitancy crossing his features as the moment of restraint eluded him. The last two times had caught him by surprise but this one wouldn't. Sherlock leant in, watching John's lips part, watching the tip of his tongue dart nervously across them before vanishing again.

John's eyes searched his and Sherlock held himself still, seeing the flicker of eyelashes, the dark gleam as John's pupils dilated. He could almost feel John's breath on his skin, could smell the mix of wine and food. John's brow furrowed slightly when he didn't move, so, after a heartbeat, he raised his hand, smoothing his thumb over the creases between John's eyebrows. The doctor's eyes fell closed and he pressed his lips together before letting them fall open again. Sherlock repeated the action, seeing the flicker of eyes behind closed lids. He trailed his thumb outward and turned his wrist, skimming his fingertips over line of John's cheekbone as he drew his hand away. John strained to follow the movement, eyes still closed. Sherlock let him, keeping such a tenuous connection, skin against skin, leaning in further. He caught a sigh so soft it wasn't much more than an exhalation, ghosting over his own lips, tasting of John. He knew that taste but only flashes of it, short bursts cut off before their time.

He wanted more. He wanted John to want more. He saw John's eyes begin to open, knew there would be questions in them, wondering what was taking so long.

Before they could form, he exhaled slowly, letting John breathe him in instead, and kissed him.


	64. Chapter 64

Sherlock exhaled slowly, and John had a moment to breathe him in before there was a light touch against his lips. The sensation made him freeze and he felt a brief, sharp urge to pull away, to reassert control as he had before.

But this time there wasn't anything else between them. No arguments, no former lovers. Sherlock's lips were soft, almost not there, as if waiting for John to answer – so he did. He moved his lips slightly, tilting his head without thinking, and felt Sherlock deepen the kiss. Nothing more than a minute increase in pressure, a shift that fit them closer together.

He'd forgotten what it felt like – and it was different than kissing a woman in ways John couldn't describe but that he wanted to catalogue and store so he wouldn't ever forget because it still didn't seem real. It still didn't seem possible that Sherlock was there, kissing him, and he was kissing back, and he wasn't dreaming. He wanted to remember this always and he wanted to forget about the complications – Sherlock's job, the fact that Sherlock was his boss, the debt, all of it. They weren't important. They could sort that out. But not right now.

For now, he let his hand come up to trace the line of Sherlock's jaw, to weave into the dark curls on the back of his head, to tug lightly on the smooth strands of hair. He felt Sherlock sigh indulgently against him and felt those warm lips part slightly. John let his hand slide down to the back of Sherlock's neck, thumb rubbing up and down along the line of his vertebrae, and tugged lightly on Sherlock's bottom lip, sucking, not biting, running his tongue along the smooth inner surface. Sherlock pressed closer, opening his mouth more, and John felt the tip of his tongue touching his, almost questioningly, retreating before darting out again. John met it this time and swallowed the quiet gasp that seemed to stick in his throat, sending small shocks down his arms, down his legs.

He pulled Sherlock even closer, felt his nose dig into partner's cheek, sucked in a deep breath as he slid his tongue over Sherlock's, then along the backs of his teeth before returning, savouring that intense, heady taste that was Sherlock alone, not just the wine, not just the meal, but _him._

_Oh god_, John thought and then Sherlock's hands were on his face, fingers splayed, holding him tightly, kissing hard. John responded with equal fervour, wanting to be closer than he was, crushing those ridiculously sensual lips against his own. He tugged on Sherlock's bottom lip again, with teeth this time, nipping and drawing it into his own mouth until he caught a moan and felt it shudder down his spine. He bit harder, twisting slightly, not quite shy of leaving a mark. He wanted Sherlock to have his own marks, to look at him and know who had left them. To have everyone else know, too. The sudden possessiveness made him shiver.

He pulled away, breathing hard, and met Sherlock's darkened eyes. John shifted, brushing his nose against Sherlock's, kissed him lightly. Sherlock met his lips and then turned away, tracing a light path along John's jaw. John's eyes fell shut and he tipped his head back, giving his partner better access. Sherlock's breath ghosted across his skin, followed by feathered kisses so light they were barely there, drawing up goose bumps. John shifted against Sherlock so he could shuffle down to lean comfortably on the armrest, head pushed back as far as it could go. He felt Sherlock's weight sink down on him and snapped his eyes open with a gasp as the sensation shot straight to his groin. Without thinking, John spread his legs and Sherlock settled between them, letting John pin him loosely. He groaned, running his hands up Sherlock's back, silk slipping under his fingers. He could feel Sherlock starting to harden against him and the sensation was so shocking after so long that John arched up, hands dropping to Sherlock's arse as he thrust against him.

Sherlock moaned and dropped his head, forehead pressing against John's jaw. John gasped, feeling Sherlock's harsh breathing on his neck as he struggled to regain his composure. He settled his hands on Sherlock's waist, inhaling deeply. He closed his eyes and held his breath, exhaling when he felt Sherlock's lips on his skin again, tracing downward, fingertips ghosting in their wake. John let his eyes fall closed again, focusing on the sensation, relaxing his legs. The buttons of his shirt slipped free of the fabric and John felt a flush of cool air against his skin the moment before Sherlock's warm lips brushed over it. He arched his head to the side, sighing, dragging one foot down the back of Sherlock's leg, then chuckled when he realised he was still wearing his shoes. He managed to toe them off, feeling a smile against his skin.

Sherlock's hands made quick work of his shirt, slipping it open, his hands brushing over John's skin, up his sides, to his shoulders where he pushed the fabric aside as much as he could. John felt a sudden hesitation and raised his head quickly, swallowing hard. Sherlock's nose was almost touching his scar, his breath warming the damaged skin. John shuffled his legs, trying to get some purchase, and Sherlock raised his head, meeting his eyes in the soft lamp light.

John felt his lips part slightly then forced them tight together, feeling himself pull away without moving. Sherlock kept watching him, eyes calm and locked with John's, waiting. John found himself matching his breathing to his partner's, relaxing slowly. He exhaled a deep breath and gave a slight nod. Sherlock kept his gaze on John's, kept still.

"Let me," he whispered.

John nodded, licking his lips.

"Let me," Sherlock whispered again.

"Yeah," John whispered in reply. Sherlock kissed him lightly and John raised his head to follow the touch, feeling Sherlock's fingers skim over the scar. He closed his eyes as Sherlock drew his lips away, trying to focus on the sensation alone, trying to appreciate it rather than reject it outright.

No one else but the doctors and nurses had ever touched the scar. Their touch had been professional and removed – out of necessity only. He had touched it himself, of course; checked for sensation, washing it in the shower, accidentally brushing it as he dressed. At first it had been difficult, made him shudder, made him cringe. Then it had become more routine but he had still never adjusted to it, not fully.

Sherlock's lips grazed the scar and John tensed but forced himself to relax again. For a moment, it was no more than the light kiss of then John felt the tip of Sherlock's tongue tracing the edges before flattening into a broad stroke.

John gasped, shocked at the bite of desire that coiled in his groin. He closed his eyes, moaning as Sherlock licked the scar again then kissed it, drawing away. John bit his lip, lacing his fingers into Sherlock's hair, tugging lightly, trying to bring him back up for another kiss but Sherlock resisted, moving downward, lips tracing across bare skin until John felt that tongue dart out again, flicking over his left nipple.

He gasped and moaned sharply, arching into the contact, and felt Sherlock's chuckle vibrate through him. John snapped his eyes open and found his footing, pushing up off the couch when Sherlock latched on with his teeth, one hand skimming across John's chest to the other one, pinching and tugging out of time with his mouth.

"Oh, god," John managed, voice hoarse. Sherlock's free hand trailed downward and John shuddered as his partner palmed him through the fabric of his trousers. He felt the button his pants slide free and jerked, grabbing Sherlock's hand, resisting the urge to press it against his growing erection and rub hard.

"No," he said, forcing the word through reluctant lips. Sherlock's mouth paused on his nipple and John groaned at the loss of sensation, feeling it like a physical shock. The muscles along his spine tensed, wanting to arch again, but he kept himself where he was.

"No," he repeated and Sherlock raised his head, that skilled tongue and those soft lips leaving his skin, making him cold.

"No?"

John managed to raise his head, breathing hard.

"Not tonight," he said. "I want to wait."

"Why?" Sherlock growled and the sound almost undid John, shuddering through him. He tightened his hand in Sherlock's hair, giving himself something to focus on.

"We have time," John said. "It doesn't have to be all right now."

"There's no reason to wait," Sherlock replied. His tone made John's lips twitch – it was reasonable, rational.

"I have reasons."

"But you don't want to," Sherlock said, his fingers twitching and John's hand tightened over them as well.

"Yes and no," John admitted.

"Then pick yes," Sherlock murmured, dropping his head again, tongue flickering. John bit his lip hard, tugging on Sherlock's hair. Sherlock raised his head again and John saw the genuine puzzlement behind the mild irritation in his eyes.

_How many people have really ever said no to him?_ he wondered. _How many times has he ever been denied? Not turned down, but told to slow down? _

He was willing to bet that it had never happened.

"I don't–" John started, then licked his lips, seeing Sherlock follow the movement. "I don't want what the others wanted. I'm not your lover, Sherlock. I'm your partner. You're the one who's so keen on that distinction."

"You do want this, John," Sherlock murmured, fingers flexing again, only lightly, but enough for John to feel it. He managed to nod, a shaky, jerky gesture.

"Yes, but I want to wait, too. I mean– Christ, I want you, you have no idea."

"I think I might," Sherlock murmured, dropping his head again, lips trailing over John's skin.

John gritted his teeth.

"You can't always get what you want. Not with me. Not in a relationship like this."

He felt the answering huff against his skin.

"We both want it."

"And I'm asking you to wait," John replied. "I'm asking you to do this for me. It's been fifteen years, Sherlock. And that ended – badly. I want– We have time. Please."

Sherlock met his eyes again. He was quiet for a long moment and John held the silence between them as long as he could.

"I'm not saying no," John said carefully. "I'm saying not yet."

There was another drawn out pause then Sherlock nodded reluctantly, disappointed, and began to draw away. John's hand tightened in his hair again and he wound the other one quickly around Sherlock's back, pulling his closer.

"No," John murmured. "It's not all or nothing."

Sherlock hesitated a moment then a slow smile spread across his lips. John raised his head just as Sherlock dropped his to meet him in another fierce kiss.

* * *

><p>Irene always did enjoy visiting Edinburgh.<p>

It wasn't particularly rare that she received an invitation and she made a point of going on a semi-regular basis so as to alleviate any suspicions on Jim Moriarty's part. She ensured she always packed her supplies regardless of whether or not she was visiting a client – she had fewer clients now since she'd retired from the theatre world, but that was by choice. Her work for Sherlock kept her respectably busy but he had no issue with her continued self-employment so long as it did not interfere with his business.

Often enough, it provided information that he found particularly useful. He was not a man to be picky about how such information was obtained. Irene was certain he'd resorted to the same sort of tactics himself although he was somewhat less… liberal in his choice of unwitting informants.

Her client this time was one of her old favourites – intelligent, attractive, always engaging. Irene looked forward to each encounter as soon as it was arranged. She enjoyed the variety, the challenge. She never knew precisely what to expect with this one, and it always sent a small thrill through her.

She was greeted with a warm smile as she stepped out of the lift and into the penthouse flat. Irene returned it with a genuine smile of her own, exchanging light kisses on each cheek.

"Irene, so good to see you."

"Angela," Irene replied. "A pleasure, as always."

"You look ravishing."

"Don't I always?"

"You do. Alexander does well by you, doesn't he?"

"We muddle through, he and I," Irene agreed. "You look absolutely radiant. Pregnancy suits you."

"So kind of you to lie," Angela replied easily and Irene's lips stretched into a smile. "Wine? I can't have any myself but I have several wonderful bottles of red from France that have been cellared long enough."

"Please," Irene agreed, shedding her coat and draping it gracefully over the back of a chair as she followed her host through the sitting room and into the kitchen, two sets of high heeled shoes ringing on the Italian tile.

"Do you miss the wine?" she asked as Angela filled a glass with Irene's choice, the dark red liquid catching the light and gleaming.

"I do but these are the sacrifices we make. In the end, it's not such a long time and this one will be the last."

"And what does David think?"

"He has a calendar in his room on which he is marking off the days as they go by. He's quite excited."

"Is he here?" Irene enquired. That would be… unusual.

"No," Angela replied. "He's in London, with his father. I thought it best I come up here alone. Mycroft prefers to turn a blind eye to our meetings."

"Shame," Irene murmured. "He'd enjoy them so much, I think. He must have interesting tastes. A man like that? Such a polished exterior. There's always something hidden underneath."

"Many things," Angela murmured, leading Irene back into the sitting room and sinking gracefully onto the sofa. "But our little rendezvous? He'd rather not know. I do respect that. He's very generous, after all. I should think very few partners are quite so understanding."

"You'd be surprised," Irene replied.

"Besides," Angela said, waving a hand lightly, ignoring her comment. "Having a man around would really spoil the whole thing, wouldn't it?"

Irene crossed one leg over the other at the knee and sipped her wine.

"Indeed it would," she agreed. In a world where she dealt largely with men, it was a rare thing to have a friendship with another woman as intelligent and well connected as she was. It was nice to be able to relax and unwind and – yes – even to trust someone else without the constant sensation that she was being evaluated, even unconsciously, based on the shape of her body. She knew Sherlock wouldn't think of that, nor any of the other lieutenants, but the tone was still different here.

_Our version of a girls' night out_, she thought and smiled as she sipped her wine.

"His dilemma, of course, is that he can't trust the Secret Service yet he trusts me."

"You do spy on people for a living, as he's said."

"And he's right. Only not on him. What would be the point? I can get any information I want from him in other ways."

Irene arched an eyebrow.

"Generally by asking," Angela added. "Of course it would be remiss of me, as a Secret Service agent, to be speaking to a suspected international criminal."

"Which is why Sherlock's not here."

"I've spoken to him already," Angela replied. "Although not about this. I suspect Jim Moriarty is very much on edge with Sherlock at the moment – did you hear about the jade hair pin that sold for nine million pounds?"

"I did," Irene murmured. "Do you know, he offered it to me first?"

"Did he?" Angela said with genuine surprise. "Well, he must like you."

"I think we have a certain mutual fondness, yes," Irene admitted.

"Yes," Angela murmured. She paused, then smiled. "So you know about the Chinese smugglers then?"

"Of course," Irene replied.

"Would you like to know about the smugglers moving weapons out of Glasgow?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** There is art for the kiss here: tinyurl. com/ 7nrb2by and here: tinyurl. com/ 7nqzhqt by the ever lovely double-negative means yes on tumblr!


	65. Chapter 65

"I'll have a car sent round."

John considered saying no, that he'd take a cab or the tube instead, but the expression on Sherlock's face changed his mind. In his own unique way, Sherlock was offering, not insisting – John could see the faintest of questions touching those pale grey eyes.

He wondered what would happen if he declared he was staying the night.

_Probably better not,_ he told himself. He doubted his resistance would last if he did.

"Thanks," he said, smiling as Sherlock held his jacket for him. John didn't miss the way Sherlock's fingers brushed unnecessarily over his shoulders and neck as he helped John into the coat. He didn't mind it, either.

"Thanks for dinner," he said, turning and leaning up to give Sherlock another kiss. Sherlock's touch in return was light, almost hesitant, and John fought down a smile.

_First good night kiss?_ he asked himself. He kissed Sherlock again, just for reassurance.

"Next time, I'll take you somewhere."

Sherlock hesitated almost imperceptibly at that, but John had been watching for it. He was trying to work out what John would plan – and probably trying not to demand an explanation. Instead, he nodded smoothly, expression schooled back to pleasant.

"Of course," he agreed. John grinned and kissed him a final time.

"Good night, Sherlock. Thanks again – dinner was amazing."

"And the rest?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow.

"That was good, too," John said, then chuckled at his partner's feigned huff.

Sherlock let him out and hesitated in the doorway as if uncertain about accompanying John to the lift or going back inside. In the end, he leant against the doorframe, arms folded, and waited until John was stepping out of view. The doctor gave him a final grin and got an answering twitch of the lips in return.

When the lift doors closed behind him, he inhaled a deep breath and let it out abruptly, fighting down the urge to grin like a maniac. There were probably cameras in the lift. It was precisely that sort of building.

The main door was held open for John, as was the car door. He recognised Sherlock's own driver and half wondered if the man ever slept, but thanked him anyway as the door was shut with a quiet click behind him. The interior of the car was warm but dark, smelling faintly of leather.

In the private darkness, John did let himself grin. He felt somewhere between lightheaded and floating, almost pleasantly drunk – but he hadn't had enough wine for it to be only that. He chuckled softly in the quiet space.

He felt fantastic.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this. It seemed like it must have been years. Three months ago his life had been confined to a tiny room in a barren complex with no money and a psychosomatic limp, only the prospect of a dismal new year looming in front of him.

Now this.

Sitting in the back of a private car on his way to his flat after the best first date he'd had in – well, possibly ever. It still seemed surreal that this had happened – all of it. The job, the flat in Baker Street, Sherlock. Discreetly, even though no one was watching, John pinched himself lightly, feeling the tiny flare of pain across the back of his hand.

The city slid by, alternating dark and artificial light, groups of people and empty spaces. John felt like he could see it with new eyes; in Afghanistan, he'd learnt to see past all the buildings and pools of light and depths of shadows to what was really there – a trap, an enemy combatant, a day-to-day scene that meant no harm.

He'd never thought to apply it to London before. Now he wondered who among the crowds they drove past belonged to Sherlock – knowingly or unknowingly – and who belonged to Jim Moriarty or one of the other organised crime syndicates that operated in the city. He was there, right in the thick of it, and it should have been appalling.

It was exhilarating.

The car slid up in front of his flat and John raised his eyes to see a glow from his windows – mingled blue and yellow lights. He wasn't surprised to find Jamie in the living room, watching telly in the chair he'd more or less made his own when he'd lived there. It was well after midnight, but the mechanic was still dressed – jeans and a t-shirt – and had helped himself to one of John's beers. He looked up when John entered and raised the can, nodding in silent salute. John got the distinct impression that even if Jamie could have spoken, he wouldn't have.

John nodded in return before shucking his coat and shoes and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He fetched himself a beer from the kitchen as well and settled into his chair, relaxing with a faint, contented sigh. Jamie was watching some American film John vaguely recognised. He sipped his beer, tasting Sherlock on his still slightly swollen lips. John smiled to himself and fished out his phone when Jamie began to type something on his own mobile.

_Good time?_ the mechanic asked, attention still turned toward the telly. John's eyes flickered toward the television screen then back to his friend, considering.

_Yeah, thanks_, he sent back. _Nice of you to wait up for me._

Jamie arched an eyebrow at him, a hint of amusement gleaming momentarily in his hazel eyes.

"Fantastic time, actually," John said, taking a sip of his beer, eyes sliding to the telly again. "He cooked dinner for me."

Jamie huffed lightly, a faint sound through his nose. John's eyes darted back to him but the mechanic had returned his gaze to the film, watching some actress chase someone down while wearing improbably high heels.

_That was nice of him,_ Jamie sent. John kept a sharp eye on his friend; Jamie had adopted a well practiced talking-to-superior-officers expression and John saw right through it.

"Oh, piss off," he replied without any bite in his voice.

Jamie said nothing, sipping his beer, attention still focused on the film. John settled more comfortably in the chair, trying to follow the plot that was being spun out on the television screen, although it didn't make much sense. The American actors, in his opinion, all looked alike, making it hard to tell the male characters apart.

_He's a good boss_, Jamie said after a few minutes. John snorted inwardly but swallowed on the mirth – and on the urge to point out that Sherlock was good at more than just being a boss. He could feeling the fading tenderness in his lips and, when he licked them, he could still taste Sherlock against his skin.

"I know you don't like him," John said and caught the flicker of surprise that crossed Jamie's features, too quick to be quelled. "It's okay, Jamie. You don't have to."

Jamie set his beer aside with a quiet click and settled his hands on the arms of his chair, drumming his fingers lightly against the upholstery. John mustered his best captain's glare but it wavered under the full weight of a sergeant's glower. John took another sip of his beer, breaking his friend's gaze to look back at the telly. He could feel Jamie's gaze still pinned on him but couldn't quite bring himself to meet it as he licked his lips.

"You know–" John began, swallowed, and started over. "You know I really like him, right?" He took a deeper draught of his beer to cover his embarrassment but felt the touch of heat in his cheeks nonetheless. Maybe he could blame it on the alcohol.

Jamie sighed again, louder this time, and John caught the movement as his friend looked away then back again. There was a faint flutter of motion and Jamie snorted softly; it took John a moment to realise the mechanic was laughing. John stared; Jamie's head was bowed into his hand and his shoulders were shaking silently. He felt the shock like a jolt down his spine, fingers tightening on his beer can, then the absurdity of the situation hit him and he started to laugh, too.

He swiped at his eyes and tried to get himself under control, sucking in a few deep breaths, faint tremors running through his shoulders, tightening around the bottom of his lungs.

"First time dating since Afghanistan," John managed. "And I'm starting with an international criminal, right?"

_Should've worked your way up from regional_, Jamie replied, then ducked when John pitched a handy pen at him. Another chuckle escaped his lips and Jamie's shoulders were still shaking, lips pressed into a thin line as he struggled to regain his composure. Jamie huffed quietly and shook his head.

"Can't help who you fall for," John murmured, not quite meeting Jamie's eyes, the last of his laughter fading away. Jamie shrugged one shoulder noncommittally, his own amusement vanishing. John frowned slightly, covering his uncertainty by finishing his beer.

_Can you?_ he asked himself. Maybe. But maybe it didn't matter, either. This was what he wanted. A year ago, if someone had told him this was where he'd be now, John would have been appalled – if he'd believed it at all. His life had changed so abruptly thanks to two bullets – one in his shoulder, the other in a stranger's leg. It made him suddenly uncomfortable to realise that the same sort of injury that had brought his life to a screeching halt had also kicked it back into high gear.

A month and a half wasn't long, but the man he'd been the day before he'd met Sherlock wouldn't recognise this life he had now. He wondered if he hadn't been shot but had met Sherlock anyway if he'd have found him so attractive. The thought made him more uncomfortable and he tried to shake it off, but the answer was there anyway. _Yes_.

There was something appealing about the danger, the uncertainty… Harry had been right when she'd said that she'd never pictured the house and two kids and the dog for him. He'd joined the army looking for the same thing Sherlock was giving him now. Of course he'd have wanted it regardless.

"Another beer?" John asked, pushing himself to his feet. Jamie held up his empty can in response and John took it, exchanging it for a new one. The mechanic met his eyes as John settled back into his chair. On the telly, the film seemed to be wrapping up, but it was hard to tell. Jamie raised his eyebrows at him, expression expectant.

"What if it was you and Tee?" John asked. "What if you were in my place and she was in Sherlock's? Would you still love her?"

The words shocked him; he hadn't been intending to ask that – he hadn't even known he wanted to. Jamie's nostrils flared in silent protest but John swallowed on the urge to smooth things over, to pull back.

Neither of them had ever named it so bluntly and John wondered now if Jamie and Tricia had to each other. He didn't think so; Jamie's expression was too dark, too tinged with uncertainty. John felt a flash of anger – not at his friends but at the situation, at its unpredictability. It had made sense not to acknowledge it when Jamie had still been in the service, back when it wasn't this, back when it was almost nothing. But Jamie had been discharged and there remained no possibility of repercussions, nor was Tricia more likely to die if the words were said aloud.

_Would it make it easier if she did die if they never actually said it?_ John asked, then shook his head. _No._

_She's not_, Jamie texted and John nodded.

"But would you? Love her anyway?"

Jamie huffed and looked away before meeting John's eyes again, expression closed. He shook his head but John didn't think he was saying no.

_You said you liked him, _Jamie snapped back. John flushed, suddenly embarrassed, caught by Jamie's hard gaze. He nodded quickly, taking another sip of his beer to ease the sudden dryness in his mouth.

"Yeah," he managed. "I'm not–" He sighed, the explanation failing him. John half expected Jamie to tell him to slow down – and he certainly wasn't thinking of _love_ with Sherlock, not yet. But, he realised, he _was_ expecting it. Not now but eventually. It was shocking – although he'd never wanted some quick fling to pass the time.

"I just mean– if the situations were reversed…"

_She's a doctor,_ Jamie shot back. _She helps people._

"So am I," John replied. "And…" He glanced around at the flat. He wasn't naïve or ignorant – Sherlock was a criminal. He hurt people. _And he helps them_, John thought. _Sure, maybe only if he wants something from them, but he doesn't pretend that's not the case._

He thought of the halfway house, his tiny bedsit, his life going nowhere. He saw their memories reflected on Jamie's darkened features.

The mechanic shook his head again, eyes sliding to the telly again where the credits for the film were rolling. Jamie clicked the television off and the silence was almost deafening for a moment, despite the fact that the volume had been kept low so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson. John watched his friend carefully and finally Jamie sighed again and returned his gaze, pursing his lips into a thin line.

_I don't know_, he sent. _But I think so._

* * *

><p>There was more information – not much, just enough to convince Veronique that her instincts were right, that her tired mind wasn't fabricating false connections. The details about Sherlock Holmes were scant but she'd managed to come up with a bit more on Gabriel Mitchell. She had a friend or two at the London bureau and favours were Interpol's stock-in-trade. Somebody always owed something to someone else – and she did her best to ensure that her credits exceeded her debts.<p>

_God bless the NHS_, she thought, skimming the medical records that had been rather illegally obtained for her. Holmes and Mitchell moved through the world without leaving much of a mark – but there was always something. Hospital records could be altered or deleted although it probably benefited them occasionally to appear to be cooperating with the police.

She remembered the seventeen year old boy she'd trailed for a few weeks. Veronique had been certain it had been him that had committed those burglaries in Paris and in London but she hadn't been able to prove it. She hadn't even had enough evidence to get past her superiors – the _gens d'armes_ and the Met would never have touched him. So she had set out to prove herself right and capture his talents before anyone else could. She had no evidence and even less authority to arrest him, but, by rights, a seventeen year old boy should not have known that, should have been entirely disarmed by the _possibility_ of serious consequences.

Instead, he'd turned down her offer, thanked her politely, and walked away.

Now she understood why.

Someone had got to him first with a better offer. On the surface he was doing astonishingly well for himself – but it went deeper than that; Veronique doubted Mitchell would have been happy as nothing more than a real estate executive. A boy that clever either turned to the law or against it.

And now here he was, eight years later, working for the man she'd seen talking to him at that gala. The same man for whom Chauvière worked. _That_ wasn't a coincidence. There was some mention in Mitchell's hospital records indicating that he and Holmes were personal partners – she didn't believe that for a moment. Veronique had no real evidence one way or the other, but it felt like a lie. It wasn't an uncommon lie, either; it got Holmes into the hospital with fuss or questions.

She studied the file that had been sent to her, evaluating Gabriel Mitchell as best she could from another country using only a passport photograph. He was settling into his features, less sharp, more confident, those same bright green eyes.

Veronique thought hard.

She needed more information than Chauvière had provided – yes, they could chase it down but it would take time, it would cost money, it would mean more damage done by those they were trying to identify. She could go back to Chauvière and he would flatter her and flirt with her and she'd come away with nothing because he was expecting her to return. He was probably waiting for it. He was a man who liked to play games – working for someone like Holmes, he had to be.

But Mitchell… He wouldn't be much different. He'd always been good at evasion and eight years working under a man so careful he hadn't even been on Interpol's radar, much less under suspicion, would have honed that talent. Holmes had found him before Veronique could get to him and had picked him up for precisely the same skills.

But whereas Chauvière would be waiting for her and would lead her in a merry, teasing dance, Mitchell wouldn't be expecting her at all.

Veronique's lips curled into a dark smile.

He wouldn't be expecting her, but she didn't for a moment believe he'd ever forgotten her.


	66. Chapter 66

"Burning the candle at both ends?"

Sally Donovan looked up to see a cup of coffee and a doughnut being set in front of her.

"I could say the same for you," she replied as the DI settled into the unoccupied desk opposite hers.

"You could," Lestrade agreed, "but I'm the boss."

She smiled ruefully, sipping her coffee. It was far too late to be drinking caffeine but she'd given up the illusion of getting any sleep tonight anyway – even if she went home, she'd keep herself up mulling over all the little problems in her mind.

_Little problems_, she sighed to herself. It came to something when shootings and disappearances counted as 'little problems'.

"You're also the one with kids," she pointed out.

"Who are, if I'm lucky, fast asleep. I'll be there in the morning when they wake up to kick them out the door to go to school. And again when they get home. I'm already planning some embarrassing dad thing to do with them."

He grinned and Donovan felt herself relaxing slightly. She sipped her coffee again, the warmth of the drink helping to stave off the chill that came from being tired.

"What's keeping you here?"

She sighed, setting the drink down, looking at the doughnut. The sugary coating seemed unappetizing right now but she didn't push it away. She'd need something later and it was close at hand – good enough.

"The Mitchell case," she admitted.

"Ha," Lestrade snorted. "Which one?"

"That's just it, isn't it?" Donovan said, raking her hands through her hair before slumping back against her chair. "Someone shoots the younger brother, then the older brother goes missing. The sister's lucky then, isn't she? Yeah, I know, I know, we caught the shooter. But – do you ever get the feeling you're right on the edge of something but you just can't grasp it?"

"All the time," Lestrade sighed. "But then, like you said, I do have kids."

Donovan rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I get it," Lestrade said. "I can't shake the feeling they're connected, either."

"Two brothers and that kind of trouble? It can't be a coincidence."

"It could be," her boss countered. "A bloody messy one." Donovan nodded in resigned agreement – it could be unrelated. She knew that. She'd seen enough seemingly connected incidents that had turned out not to be linked. And she'd seen enough apparently disparate events that turned out to be related.

There was something wrong with these cases, though.

"Why the older brother?" she asked. "I mean, he's a low life, yeah, but he's just a petty crook."

"If you count assaulting a cop petty," Lestrade shot back, his voice suddenly dark. Donovan held up her hands in a placating gesture, shaking her head.

"I don't," she said. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"You're always thinking, Sally. It's what makes you a good cop. And you're right though – in terms of likely targets, he wasn't one. Unless, of course, he beat up someone else and it was the wrong person. He assaulted a cop and we sent him to prison. Could be he made a bigger mistake."

"Can't really say I'd be sorry to see him go," Donovan sighed.

"Nope," Lestrade agreed.

"All right, but why shoot a real estate agent?" she asked.

"I dunno, there were a couple times after we bought the house that I wanted to," Lestrade replied with a wry glint in his eyes.

"I'd say wrong place, wrong time," Donovan mused. "But do you get the feeling that it's not?"

Lestrade gave her a long, evaluating look.

"Yeah. I do."

She drummed her fingers on her desk; it was time to come clean.

"I know you didn't order it, but I've had someone keeping an eye on him. Visual surveillance only – nothing intrusive." Lestrade cocked an eyebrow but kept silent and Donovan felt a rush of relief; he wasn't going to tear a strip off of her about this, at least not yet.

"He doesn't go much of anywhere – I guess that would be the injured leg. Work, his girlfriend's, out a few times to a park or dinner."

"Girlfriend?" Lestrade snapped.

"Yeah," Donovan replied. "Girlfriend. It wouldn't be the first time someone's lied in that situation. Got Holmes into the hospital, didn't it? We barely questioned it."

"Damn," Lestrade said, running a weary hand over his eyes. "He's a bloody good liar."

"Exactly," Donovan sighed. That sat poorly with her, too. If Holmes was that good of an actor under that kind of pressure, what could he do when he had time to prepare? It made her uneasy.

"So Mitchell's keeping his nose clean," Lestrade said. "He's just been shot and his brother is missing. I'd be doing the same."

"If we could just get to Holmes…" she sighed, ignoring Lestrade's derisive snort. "We're just rounding up the bit players and the extras, aren't we? The stars are operating right under our noses and even when we can spot them, we can't touch them."

"Every little bit counts."

"Do you believe that, Greg? Really?"

"Have to," Lestrade replied, "or else I'd just go mad working this job. Maybe he's really nothing more than the CEO of an international real estate firm."

"Right. I'll believe that when I see pigs fly."

"You and me both," her boss replied then frowned as his phone chimed a grating little melody. He fished it out and frowned at it, expression distant.

"Everything okay?" Donovan asked.

"It's Anna," he replied. "Inspector Anderson. In Edinburgh," he clarified, seeing her puzzled expression.

"Something going on up there?"

"In Glasgow, she says. Some tip off led to a raid at the docks and they've uncovered a weapons smuggling operation."

"Well," Donovan sighed. "At least _someone's_ getting results."

* * *

><p>The meeting request wasn't entirely unusual, but while Gabriel usually had his secretary handle the background checks, the name 'Rani Sharma' was unfamiliar in a way that made him want to handle it himself. He had Michael look into how Ms. Sharma had found them, took care of the more urgent work that was required of him that day, then turned his attention to finding out about his new client.<p>

It was almost disappointing to find out that she was one of the legitimate ones. They were, in his opinion, always a bit dull. Sherlock had impressed upon him early on that although these weren't the clients the kept them in business, they were the ones that kept their business from coming to the attention of the police. Most of them paid quite well for the service and the properties and some of them bridged the gap between the law abiding world and what Gabriel considered his actual job.

Ms. Sharma, however, didn't appear to fall into that category. Sherlock had never actually said that these clients were a necessary chore, but the feeling was there all the same. Gabriel gave a quiet, disappointed sigh – Rani Sharma was forty, single, and a successful solicitor. She had no police record although he suspected she was well known to them, being a private defence attorney. She had no history of substance abuse, no apparent gambling problems, no vices of any kind aside from working too much. Gabriel was disinclined to consider workaholism a valid character defect. There was something wrong, in his opinion, with anyone who considered loving one's job to be some sort of flaw.

Sharma was had a spacious flat in the city centre, a gym membership, and a car for getting out of London on the weekends when time permitted. She was looking to purchase holiday property somewhere warm, preferably in the EU where the Pound-Euro exchange rate would benefit her.

He sighed, closing the files on her; he'd get Michael to do the legwork on the potential properties and had him schedule her in for the following Thursday.

The day would have ended on a dull note, he thought, had the last thing on his schedule not been a meeting with Sherlock. Michael had tea and HobNobs ready when Sherlock breezed in and folded his long frame gracefully into one of the leather armchairs, glancing around with an air of interest – he always did this, as though he'd never been in Gabriel's office. The younger man resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Usually he went to Sherlock rather than his boss coming to him, but Sherlock was making concessions for Gabriel's injury. He strongly suspected this had something to do with John Watson, but he wasn't sure. The connection might only be in Sherlock's head.

"Have you been downstairs?" Sherlock enquired.

Gabriel nodded. "Yesterday. I can't get very far, though, not on the crutches. The foreman showed me some pictures. Looks good."

"Proceeding apace," Sherlock agreed. "I paid a visit this morning. Well done on finding them. I trust you've given Cheryl their files?"

"Yes. But I don't think she'll be necessary. Maybe just the architect. The builders think it's something else."

"Ignorance is bliss, as they say," Sherlock replied, then pulled a face. "Although I've never found that to be the case. In my experience, it can be an extraordinarily dangerous thing."

"Well, most people aren't you," Gabriel pointed out with a quick smile.

"Very true," Sherlock murmured. "Will Cheryl be disappointed, do you think? She hasn't had much work lately."

"I can't ever tell with her," Gabriel admitted. "If it was Moran, I'd say yes. But she's not a psychopath. She just kills people for a living."

"If she were a psychopath, she wouldn't be in my employ," Sherlock replied. "Professional pride is one thing. Instability is another. Cheryl is nothing if not measured and sensible," – he shot Gabriel a dark look – "Most of the time."

"She was still thorough and discreet. I'm not apologizing."

"I know you aren't," Sherlock snapped. The dangerous flare in his grey eyes faded as quickly as it had come and he sipped his tea, looking thoughtful.

"Does Jim know about John yet?" Gabriel asked, getting to what he considered the most important point of their conversation. It had been five days since Sherlock had – surprisingly successfully – cooked dinner for the doctor, but what went on in Sherlock's flat was information that even Jim Moriarty found difficult to obtain. It was easy enough to buy someone outright if there was no devotion; it was harder to do that when genuine loyalty came into play.

And when Sherlock made of point of letting Jim know that he kept careful track of the whereabouts of everyone who lived and work in his building.

"What Jim knows is that Charles spent one night at my flat and the rest of his time in London at a hotel, which he has never done before. He may suspect some sort of falling out – because he's always wanted us to have one – but I don't think he's made any other connections. He's aware that John, as your physician, is off limits."

"Yes, but that's as my doctor," Gabriel pointed out. "Hurting my doctor inconveniences me a bit but nothing else. He wouldn't care enough to do it. But hurting John…"

"I know," Sherlock said. "Which is why hints are reaching him that John Watson isn't to be touched. No reasons yet, only words that our people on the street have whispered to his. It will work its way up."

"And what about Charles?" Gabriel asked. There was a brief, faint scowl on Sherlock's features but he wouldn't dismiss the topic. "If it was anyone else, they still wouldn't try to go after him, not even now."

"But Jim isn't anyone else. Yes, I know. It would be extremely stupid, but this is precisely the kind of stupidity that would appeal to him. I've given Charles extra security."

"Does he know?"

"Yes. Otherwise he'd suspect he was being watched and try and evade them. I need his mind focused on the job, not on perceived threats."

Gabriel nodded, finishing his tea and fixing himself some more, ignoring the faint discomfort in his leg as he moved. It had been a long day – longer than he was supposed to be working according to John's orders, but what the doctor didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He needed to go home soon, though, put his leg up and take some painkillers.

"If Jim never liked you with Charles, he's going to like you with John even less."

"Jim doesn't like anything at all."

"I'm not so sure about Moran," Gabriel commented, glancing up.

"Nor am I," Sherlock admitted and his expression was honest. It bothered Gabriel that Sherlock didn't know, that Moran was an uncertain element. Jim had always despised the idea of Sherlock having lovers, seeing it as some of debasement – reason would suggest he wasn't indulging in the same thing. Gabriel had no problems believing that any kind of physical contact put Jim off altogether.

_The problem with Jim Moriarty_, Gabriel mused, _is that he leaves reason stripped bare, flayed, and executed_.

"He'll find out soon," Sherlock continued. "I have plans established already."

"And when he does?" Gabriel asked.

"We will see," Sherlock replied. "But you should be ready to act at any given moment."

"Right," Gabriel said. "I always am."

* * *

><p>"'Evening, Sherlock. How are you?"<p>

"Is this a medical enquiry?"

John grinned at the suspicion in Sherlock's voice; he could picture his partner's pale eyes narrowing as he tried to work out precisely what the doctor wanted.

"Not at all."

"Then I'm all the better for your call," Sherlock said and John felt a flash of unaccustomed shock.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," he growled, smothering the laughter in his voice, fairly sure Sherlock had picked it up anyway.

"You'd be amazed where flattery has got me in the past," Sherlock replied and John's grin grew.

"Do you have plans tonight?" he asked. There was a slight hesitation on Sherlock's end before he answered:

"Nothing that can't be rescheduled. Why?"

"Because it's been a few days since our last date – dragging me to business meetings doesn't count, so don't even try. I'd like to take you somewhere."

"And where might that be?" Sherlock asked.

"You'll find out," John promised. "Come around eight. No cars. We won't be going far."


	67. Chapter 67

**A/N:** Happy belated birthday, danflan! This one's for you!

* * *

><p>Sherlock, who had been looking uneasy since they'd left the flat, now looked as though he'd been ambushed.<p>

John grinned.

"You don't own this place, do you?" he asked. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, expression cool in an attempt to cover his uncertainty – John thought it probably would have fooled anyone else. Provided anyone else hadn't just led him to a pub on quiz night.

It was busy and they were largely ignored as they squeezed into a very small table at the back. Sherlock sat stiffly, spine rod straight, arms tucked close to his body. John grinned again, shrugging off his jacket.

"You're going to be a bit warm in that," he said, nodding, eyes flickering down to the buttons of Sherlock's greatcoat. With obvious reluctance, Sherlock divested himself of his coat, looking unhappy that he had to let it rest over the back of the chair. John's grin faded and he reached across the table, folding a hand over Sherlock's, startling him with the comfortable and public display of affection.

"Hey," John said. "If you really don't want to be here, we can leave."

Sherlock hesitated and for a moment, John thought he was going to take the offer, but then he shook his head minutely, expression resolute.

"It's fine," he said with the air of someone who was deliberately deciding to have a good time. He glanced around again, the disdain not quite masked, eyes skimming over the crowds – a mix of university students and patrons closer to John's age who were matching wits against each other as loudly as possible. Amidst the joyful chaos, Sherlock looked out of place in his black suit and the blue-grey shirt (that John suspected had been chosen because it matched the shifting colour of his eyes). He looked cool in this warm place – cool, but not cold.

"Why here?" Sherlock asked and John gave a light shrug.

"It's a favourite of mine," he said. "And the crowds are nice. There's a certain privacy in a crowd. No one's paying any attention to us."

It wasn't entirely true – Sherlock had drawn some glances and was currently the focus of two young women near the bar, who were eyeing him appreciatively and unabashedly. As if sensing their gazes, Sherlock fixed them with a stare and twisted his wrist so he could curl his fingers over John's, running his thumb over the back of John's hand slowly and pointedly. It didn't seem to have the desired effect; one of the girls winked at him – extremely suggestively, in John's well-practiced opinion – and the doctor tried not to blush.

"Oh, Lord," John murmured. "Don't give them any ideas."

"I have a number of ideas of my own – eleven so far – that have nothing to do with them," Sherlock assured him, meeting John's gaze again.

"I bet you do," John said amiably. "You just hold onto them. I'm going to get us some beers. Try not to get into any trouble while I'm away."

"I'm not the one interested in trouble," Sherlock murmured. John sighed but caught his partner's wry expression and relaxed. Sherlock wouldn't be bothered if he didn't want to be bothered. He could most likely flirt with women just as well as with men but he probably wouldn't unless he wanted something out of the exchange.

John shouldered his way to the bar, steering clear of the girls who had been paying them undue attention – noting that one of them was focused now on him, which made him want to blush harder. He ignored her and ordered two beers although he doubted his partner was much of a beer drinker at all. But this was John's date – Sherlock had cooked for him last time and provided him with the finest wine he'd ever had. He could stand to try something new. He could even stand a little gentle nudging outside of his comfort zone.

When he returned to the table, Sherlock was ignoring the continued stares by means of being on his phone, frowning at the small screen in concentration. John felt his heart sink a little bit – yes, he'd been gone for a few minutes, but surely work could wait for one evening?

"Yes," Sherlock said without looking up. "It's why I have employees."

He turned his phone so John could see the screen and the doctor relaxed. Sherlock had been reading _The Times_ – still a bit business-y for John's taste, but he'd take what he could get.

He set Sherlock's beer down in front of him. The younger man looked at it dubiously then tasted it very gingerly as though it might be poison – _no_, John thought_, he'd probably be less cautious tasting poison._ Sherlock looked thoughtful for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

"Surprisingly palatable," he said. It was probably a ringing endorsement from Sherlock Holmes. John took a longer sip of his own beer, enjoying the cold taste that chased down his throat, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the pub.

"Don't tell me you've never had beer before," John said. Sherlock shot him a scowl that didn't have any actual bite behind it.

"Of course," he said. "Though not often. And I've never enjoyed it." He paused to take another sip. "But this is quite good."

John grinned, pleased with himself. He'd picked an old standby favourite for himself, but for Sherlock, he'd chosen something darker, a little more sophisticated. Sherlock took another drink, looking thoughtful, as if he was sorting out the complexities in the taste. John swallowed on a chuckle; of course Sherlock would enjoy a puzzle, even in the form of an alcoholic beverage.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

John, snapped from his reverie, frowned. "Sorry?"

"You said it's one of your favourite pubs. Why? Geographic location? It is easily accessible from your flat, but so are many others. Do you participate in the quizzes?"

"Sometimes," John said with a grin. "There's a small group of us – me, Jamie, Bill, a couple others – who get together to play occasionally. It's fun. I like the atmosphere here. It isn't always this busy."

"I see. You chose to bring me here as a means of introducing me to the peculiarities of this pub in particular and regular life in general."

"It's probably a little different from the places you like. Not filled with shadowy dealings and dim lighting and silent, invisible waiters in waistcoats."

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "You talk as though I spend all of my time in some sort of fictitious den of intrigue."

John started to laugh, managing to put his beer down before he spilled it.

"Den of intrigue?" he repeated.

"You're the one ascribing some sort of dark and mysterious character to the places I choose to socialize."

"'Den of intrigue'," John said again, dropping his head into his hands as he chuckled. "Who says that?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, as if put upon, which made John laugh harder. He gulped in a deep breath, trying to exert control, but glancing up at Sherlock made him dissolve into laughter again.

"Oh, really," Sherlock huffed as John's shoulders shook helplessly.

"Sounds like some kind of secret society or one of those," he began, making a gesture with a hand, trying to find the right word. "You know, swingers' clubs."

"I can't speak for the former but I believe the latter are simply called 'swingers' clubs', John."

"Oh my god," John groaned, leaning his head into his hands. "We are _not_ having this conversation."

"Are we not?" John looked up again to see Sherlock sitting back in his chair, looking for all the world comfortable and relaxed, sipping his beer with equanimity.

_He's getting back at me, _John realized suddenly. _For bringing him here._

Sherlock sat forward, elbows on the table, and reached across to take John's hand, interlacing their fingers. He raised John's hand to his lips and kissed his palm – John half expected something teasing like the tip of his tongue or a faint bite, but it was just a kiss. Soft, warm, and somehow proprietary. John thought he could feel the gazes of the two girls at the bar and hoped he was wrong, but Sherlock's eyes were on him – this wasn't teasing anymore.

John felt a flush of warmth that had nothing to do with the beer or the temperature in the room, but Sherlock settled their joined hands on the table again. He was still smiling but the expression was more subdued now, without the laughter underneath.

"If you'd prefer to have a conversation more appropriate to this venue, we could always discuss sports," Sherlock suggested.

"Yeah right," John replied with a grin. "What do you know about sports?"

"You may be surprised."

"Uh-huh," John said, not bothering to hide his doubt. "Is this another thing you just have to know for business? Do you own a football stadium?"

"Not that I know of," Sherlock sniffed.

"Not that you know of?" the doctor echoed. "You mean you might and you just haven't noticed?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

"No. I'm aware of all the property I own in the city and approximately ninety-five percent in the rest of England, but I _do_ own an international real estate business, John. I have regional managers whose job it is to acquire property for me in other countries."

"Among other responsibilities," John murmured.

"Among other responsibilities," Sherlock agreed. "However, my knowledge of the intricacies of football is mercifully non-existent."

"What, you mean you've never played?"

"If by 'played' you mean 'was forced to participate' then yes. I did go to school, you will remember. For some reason, they were very keen on having us participate in sport, which generally seemed to mean running around without any goal or direction whatsoever while someone blew a whistle incessantly at us."

"And of course your memory of that isn't skewed at all," John commented with a twitch of his lips.

"Of course not," Sherlock sniffed.

"Well if you don't know anything about football by this point in your life, I can't imagine you want to listen to me go through the rules."

"And I'm very happy not to," Sherlock replied. John huffed a chuckle.

"Then what? Rugby? Tennis? Golf?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Cricket, John!"

"What?" John demanded. "What, sorry? Cricket? You play cricket?"

"No, of course not. I'm not a team player."

"So you watch it?"

"Dull. No point. The game will turn out as it turns out regardless of my passive observation. I follow the scores."

"You. Follow cricket."

"Yes, I did just say."

John cast about for something to say and came up with:

"Why?" He pressed his lips together, shook his head, then spoke again. "I mean,cricket? No one even understands cricket, even the people who play it!"

There was a gleam in Sherlock's eyes and a smug hint around his lips as they twitched upward before he sipped his beer again.

"Oh, I get it," John said.

"Do you?" Sherlock asked smoothly.

"No one understands the rules of cricket, so you made a point of learning them so you could say that you _do_ and impress everyone."

"Of course not," Sherlock replied with a disdainful note in his voice that was completely belied by the light in his eyes. "That would be vain and self-serving."

"So not at all what you're like," John snorted.

"No," Sherlock said coolly. "I'd best be described as resourceful, dynamic, and enigmatic."

"Sure you would," John agreed, grinning at the pointed look Sherlock shot him. "And how would you describe me, since you're so good at reading people? One word."

"Only one word?" Sherlock asked. "I just used three for myself."

"One word," John said firmly. "Because of the three that you picked for yourself, if I had to choose one, it would be resourceful."

"I far prefer enigmatic," Sherlock sniffed.

"I bet you do," John replied with a grin. "But you were fourteen when you… went into business for yourself. Resourceful wins."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, obviously covering a moment of thought by taking a sip of his beer. He let his gaze slide away, over John's shoulder, fixed on nothing. John could see the little flickers of expression in his eyes though as he skimmed through options and discarded each one. He sipped his own beer while he waited, feeling something that bordered on nervousness.

"Surprising," he said and John felt a flash of surprise himself.

"Surprising?"

"There are a number of other adjectives I could have used – loyal, resilient, dependable, adventurous – and they are all true but they fail to capture what is at the core."

"I'm surprising at the core?" John asked.

"What would you have picked for yourself?" Sherlock asked in return. John hesitated, eyes dropping away, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

"Normal," he finally settled on. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Normal," he repeated.

"Yeah – I guess I always felt– well, like you said, dependable. Predictable. Normal."

He was aware of the shift in light as Sherlock leaned toward him, the warmth of his partner's body as he drew closer, the faintly bitter tang of beer he could just smell on Sherlock's breath. Sherlock's eyes had darkened, his gaze steady and close. John felt his lips part slightly, felt the pulse in his neck jump.

"Normal," Sherlock said again, his voice barely above a murmur.

"Yeah," John said, licking his lips, swallowing against a sudden dryness in his mouth. "I mean, a bit."

"Oh no," Sherlock replied, his voice low and smooth. "Not even a bit, John. Not for a moment. Do you imagine I would ever find myself in a place like this with someone who was 'normal'?"

John tried to frame a reply, tried to remember how to speak, but it was all lost when Sherlock closed the rest of the distance and kissed him.


	68. Chapter 68

"This week's new payroll," Gabriel said, handing over a distressingly slim file. "Only two of interest. Molly Hooper, a morgue tech at St. Bart's, and Henry Walsh, legal counsel for our embassy in Cairo."

Sherlock leant forward and accepted it, skimming the information on the first of only a few scant pages. The photographs were excellent quality – as always – which let him train his practiced eye on the details that weren't listed on the facts sheet.

She: early thirties, single, quiet, awkward. Liked the colour pink and had at least one cat.

He: late thirties, divorced, no children, golfer. Still got on with his ex and lived in Egypt enough to maintain a year-round tan.

"She'd be easy," Gabriel said.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, flipping through the rest of the information. "But pointless." He raised his eyes to find his young associate watching him patiently. "No surprise Jim has someone at Bart's – it won't be the only morgue. We haven't go anyone there, have we?"

"No," Gabriel confirmed.

"It doesn't matter that it's her. It wouldn't matter if she were gone. He'd find someone else within a few days – she's easily intimidated but she can't be the only one. He'd barely bat an eyelash. She's a woman. Jim doesn't do women."

"No kidding," Gabriel murmured and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him before glancing back down at the file in his hand.

"But him… This would have taken work. Grooming. He's got something on Walsh or Walsh is greedy. Find out what. Make sure it goes public."

"How do you want me to handle it?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, snapping the file shut. "He'll be livid. Almost right under his nose. But he'll relish the excuse to use the military police."

"When?" Gabriel asked.

"Tonight. Front page of the _Times_ on a Monday morning? It will make people sit up and take notice."

"It doesn't give me much time to find Walsh's secret."

"You don't need much time," Sherlock said, extending the file back across the small coffee table. "If you did, you wouldn't work for me."

"What about Glasgow?"

"Angela is good," Sherlock said simply. "Irene is better."

"Most people pretend _not_ to be having affairs when they actually are, not the other way around," Gabriel commented, shifting slightly, a faint flicker of discomfort – no longer pain – behind his green eyes.

"Most people are not Irene Adler," Sherlock replied.

"You can say that again," Gabriel huffed.

"If Jim suspected my involvement, we'd know by now. Make sure something slips through in Walsh's arrest. He needs to know about this one. No more than a hint."

Gabriel nodded.

"Damage control?"

"Put Simone on it. Have her talk to Anthea. And some of the people on the street. We need to try and keep this from surfacing too much. Send someone around to Bart's to talk to Ms. Hooper, too. Preferably someone female and non-threatening."

"Not Irene then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Who do we have in the military police?" he asked.

"About three people I'd trust for this."

"Have one of them. No more. Get some people in the crowd taking video on their phones, too. I want to see faces – politicians in particular but also reporters. Anyone else of note."

"Right," Gabriel agreed.

"And do it quickly," Sherlock said, pushing himself to his feet. "You don't want to disregard your doctor's orders and overwork yourself."

"No," Gabriel said with a grin. "That wouldn't do at all. Especially since I'm not the only one who would get an earful about it."

"Just see that it gets done," Sherlock snapped with more irritation than he actually felt, and strode from Gabriel's office, ignoring the silent laughter behind him.

* * *

><p>"Jim."<p>

A single finger forestalling more chatter by it didn't stop the expression that he could see even with his face in profile, eyes trained on something else. The wall. Immaculately painted, even strokes, up-down, up-down, so subtle that the brushwork was lost unless you _really_ looked and wouldn't wallpaper look better anyway? Something patterned so that the shapes kept going, moving in on themselves smaller and smaller until there was nothing left but perfect silence?

It was quiet here, no muted noise from the street but there was Sebastian's breathing, in-out, in-out, like the up-down nearly invisible brush strokes on the wall but Sebastian breathing _wasn't_ invisible because it would be shoulders shifting, chest rising, nostrils flaring minutely but still noticeable if you really paid attention and the whole world had made so many mistakes by never really paying attention to Sebastian Moran. Sometimes because he'd wanted it that way, other times because it was easier – for ordinary people – not to see what they didn't like.

He saw what he didn't like, a face on the television screen, on the front page of the newspapers, splashed everywhere in colour that was smaller than life or larger than life depending on what he was looking at. The same face, still shots over and over and over, not angry but closed because closing meant hiding fear but fear was a tool and the right person with the right lever could crack it wide open and there were so _many_ levers for Henry Walsh, weren't there? Sister, ex-wife, parents, friends – could kill them all but it would cause comment now that his face was everywhere.

Everywhere with Mycroft Holmes and those pictures – oh those pictures, those grey eyes that were Sherlock's really, looking out at him, laughing. Because Walsh had been evading Mycroft Holmes, passing through the same corridors, breathing the same air, shaking the same hands, for _years_ and there had been no recognition because Mycroft was smart – oh so smart, like diamond that could cut glass but things got lost in that refraction and Sherlock stood just enough in the shadows to see where the light landed the wrong way.

Oh yes it could be Mycroft but Jim had seen the other pictures, the ones the police had taken that no one else had access to – no one but him – and it was Walsh's office and Walsh's flat and the blasted man didn't drink wine _so why was there the same kind he'd shared with Sherlock eleven days ago?_

It was a detail – like which pill was the good pill, like a jade hairpin – that no one would notice, probably not even the older brother, and Henry Walsh would never look at those photos and say that's-not-my-wine-it-must-have-been-planted because why would anyone plant a bottle of wine?

As a clue. As a message. As a mockery.

It had been work, hard work, finding Walsh, slipping through all those layers and people who he could have used but who had weaknesses, failings, trip wires that rendered them pointless – addictions, secrets, secret additctions. But Walsh just liked money. He liked it taking up space in his bank accounts and didn't care how it got there, he just wanted it. He could spend it and he did and if it was gambling it was never too much and if it was women they were discreet and if it was drugs he neved exceeded his limits. Fun. Man after Jim's own heart – and he _had_ a heart despite himself, could feel it beating, just like Henry Walsh's and he couldn't stop that, not yet, too soon, it would raise suspicion.

But this wasn't fun.

It was supposed to be a game and why _whywhywhy_ didn't Sherlock understand? He'd taken the rules and burnt them and thrown them to the wind and it wasn't making it _fun_ it was making it _work_ when things with Sherlock were not supposed to be work. It wasn't supposed to be like walking in a minefield but like dancing, each step, one-two one-two-three and moving but not with Sherlock _leading _and–

"Orders?" Sebastian said.

"Three days," Jim said. "Then two more."

The paint on the wall, all neat strokes so it was invisible, peaceful, calming, unassuming. There was a man like that – not the Frenchman _no_ but a doctor. A little doctor. Came from nowhere, didn't belong in the game, upset the whole board. Upset Sherlock. It was supposed to be a relief that the Frenchman had _stopped touching what wasn't his_ but it wasn't, instead it was like lines Jim couldn't see in the paint, invisible but there. Grating. Raw. Unnecessary.

"Understood," Sebastian said but no it wasn't because he didn't have all the information and didn't he _know_ and there was a smack of a palm on mahogany – killing the rainforest they said, sucking out all of the air but Jim needed to breathe now.

"Seb." The name was like honey but then not so sweet because sweet was not a word that would apply or Jim wouldn't have let him apply his skills, would have found a knife suitable for that trigger finger. Raised eyebrows, attentive.

"And paint. You'll need paint."

* * *

><p>The lights flickered once, twice, failed.<p>

Looking up was a stupid instinct in the pitch darkness but Lestrade did it anyway. The shift of clothing against upholstery told him Sally Donovan was on her feet and he stood too, as if this would help somehow, ears tuned to the bewildered shouts and questions from outside his office.

"What the hell?" he murmured under his breath, hearing a sharp inhalation at the words. The back up lights hadn't come on nor had the alarms gone off.

"The cells," Donovan said and Lestrade wondered if she was worried about suspects escaping or killing each other – or both.

A flash of light from outside his office indicated someone had remembered that police officers had torches and a moment later, a few more bright spots joined the first. Lestrade was rummaging in his desk from memory when his door opened and a beam caught him on the chest. He couldn't see the offending officer but at least the light wasn't being shone in his eyes – someone had remembered his training enough to dispense with it and not blind his DI.

"Sir? What's going on?"

As if Lestrade knew. He swallowed on the urge to say that the power had gone out and heard Donovan huff gently. He resumed his blind search, fingers curling around the handle of his torch. Funny that so small a thing could engender such a vast relief it almost made his knees weak.

"Let's get everyone out," he said by way of reply. "You all know the drill. Nice and orderly."

He stepped past the officer in his doorway – a constable, he checked just to make sure – Donovan right behind him, and began issuing orders for the evacuation. People were moving, falling into small groups behind the bob of torchlight but he could feel the resistance. New Scotland Yard was only evacuated if necessary. The last time had been a bomb threat – a faked one, as it turned out, but the tension strumming through the air here was the same. Worse, because no one could really see where they were going.

Lestrade appropriated a torch from a small group that had two and passed it to Donovan, who joined him unquestioningly to make sure everyone had got out before they headed toward the stairs themselves. It was an eerie feeling, trapped in the darkness in a place he knew so well, searching each room for people he saw every day.

Passing by a window, he thought he saw a flash of shadow and stopped short, swinging his torch round fast.

"Sir?" Donovan hissed. Even lowered, her voice sounded too loud in the unnatural darkness.

"Shh," he hissed back, as though their voices might carry through the building to the outside. He swung the beam down and stepped toward the window, peering out, eyes roaming carefully.

But who the hell would be all the way up here?

He let his police instincts override his common sense response that they were too high off the ground and that it wasn't possible for anyone to be up there. It wasn't supposed to be possible for the back up lights to fail along with the rest of the power, but they had.

He didn't see any more movement; the darkness that greeted his eyes was almost absolute.

"It's not just us," he whispered. "Power's out on the whole block, I think."

"Come on, Greg," Donovan whispered. Lestrade left the window quickly; being nearly alone in a darkened, deserted building was a bad decision.

There didn't have to be a bomb threat called in for there to be an actual bomb.

"Let's go," he told her, following her lead to the stairs. There were people in the stairwell, hurrying down past them, and their presence made Lestrade feel oddly better. He and Donovan joined the trickle, stepping into the cold March air. He wished he had his coat, although being in the press of evacuate police officers helped. There was some sort of order being imposed on the general milling about; constables had been rounded up to direct people to their units. He kept his eyes and ears open, searching for familiar faces or voices in the shuttering light from the torches. Donovan stayed close behind him in the sea of bodies; he felt her hand on his shoulder once, fingers curling tightly to keep them from being separated. It was a strange feeling, something he might otherwise consider too intimate a touch from a subordinate taking on a sense of absolute necessity.

There was a flicker and a shout – the cry was taken up by several voices and Donovan's hand dropped away as she turned. Lestrade spun, eyes fixing on the building behind them. The emergency lights were coming on in some of the windows, low and stuttering and not at all working at full capacity – the whole building should have been dimly lit rather than just patches here and there.

He blinked, frowned, blinked again, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him.

"Do you see that?" he asked, voice carrying over the murmurs all around him. Donovan nodded, still facing away from him, staring at the lit windows.

"Yeah," she said.

One of the marked panes was the one through which he'd seen someone, Lestrade was certain. The lights flickered again then stabilised. He reread the message, trying to make sense of it. One letter per illuminated window and a little heart sketched at the end.

I O U Sherlock

Donovan took a step back until she was standing next to him, just barely outlined by the glow of someone's torch, dark curls catching the faint light.

"How many people do you suppose there are in this city named 'Sherlock'?" she murmured.

"Not enough for this to be a coincidence," Lestrade replied.


	69. Chapter 69

The sound of the door opening that followed the quick knock seemed to surprise Gabriel less than it did Sandra, although he was reaching for his crutches before the door had shut again, pushing himself up with a practiced movement. He was between her and the corridor that led to the doorway, a subtle shift that she didn't miss. She rose as well; a flicker of relief was followed by irritation when Sherlock Holmes strode into the living room.

"Forgive the intrusion." His voice was as stiff as his posture, cold, giving nothing away. "I don't have time to explain. Sandra, please go into Gabriel's bedroom, shut the door, and stay there until I tell you it's safe to come out."

"What?" she demanded.

"The police are coming. Now please. Quite quickly."

Sandra held her ground – not so much out of stubbornness but shock.

"Stay quiet and they shouldn't know you're here. If you hear anyone – _anyone_ – coming down the hallway, pretend to be asleep. Do you understand?"

She opened her mouth to protest but caught sight of Gabriel's expression – warm but not quite reassuring, if only because she didn't think there were real reassurances she could accept right now.

"Yes," she lied. She held his gaze steady for a moment then turned away, making her way to the bedroom, and sat down on the bed to wait.

* * *

><p>"Richard?" Gabriel asked softly when he heard his bedroom door shut. The name was hard to get past his lips, catching in his throat, sparking that same paralyzing fear he felt when his brother had him – so stupid now because Richard was nothing more than decay. There was a flash of anger that forced the fear out. <em>Not anymore<em>, he thought. _No more._

"No," Sherlock said and the anger changed to relief so quickly he had to sit down to avoid putting weight on his bad leg. "Although once Ms. Hooper is securely on our payroll, I'll have Cheryl make use of Bart's incinerator services. This came up the line from one of our people in the Met."

He passed his phone to Gabriel and vanished into the kitchen. Gabriel kept an ear trained on what his boss was doing – getting out a bottle of Scotch and some tumblers by the sounds of it – and looked at the photographs.

New Scotland Yard in the darkness. The power must have been off – he did a quick check to find this was the case – because there was no evidence of street lamps interfering with the photographs. The illumination was lower, whiter, more focused – torches. The pictures were of the front of the building and not taken on a phone; the exposure and the zoom were too good. The Yard was almost completely dark inside save for a handful of windows illuminated by dim emergency lights.

In each of those windows, a spray painted letter spelling out a message:

I O U Sherlock

"Drink it. Half," Sherlock ordered, putting a glass on the coffee table in front of Gabriel. Without hesitation, the younger man picked it up and downed half of it in one go then put it on the table beside him, within easy reach. Sherlock drank slightly less than half of his while Gabriel stretched out, sitting sideways to cover the fact that the sofa had just been occupied by two people. Sherlock made himself comfortable in the chair next to Gabriel just in time for the intercom to ring and the doorman on duty to inform them that the police were on their way up.

* * *

><p>Sandra sat in the darkness and tried to breathe very quietly. She closed her eyes and focused on slowing her heart so that she could hear the voices from down the corridor and not the rush of blood in her own ears. If she concentrated, she could make out Gabriel's voice when he spoke, but only sometimes.<p>

It was Sherlock's deep voice that carried – but not enough for her to make out the actual words, only the tone – impatient, verging on angry. There were two police officers there, she thought: a man and a woman. The man's voice was low but the woman's voice was sharp, matching Sherlock's in its harsh edge. There was an argument going on, its details lost on Sandra but its undercurrent of knife edge menace settling like a weight around her.

She fisted her hands on the duvet, focusing on keeping her breathing steady. She wasn't in any personal danger. She hadn't done anything. She didn't know anything. Her presence in Gabriel's flat was hardly grounds for arrest and she'd dealt with enough cops in the A&E to know how to speak to them.

Sandra repeated these rational points of herself over and over, silently and in the back of her mind.

They did nothing to help her feel better.

There was a clock on the bedside table, the neon green numbers the only muted light in the darkness, but Sandra kept herself from checking it resolutely, trying to focus on the conversation rather than on how exposed she'd be if one of those officers decided to check the flat.

Sherlock was arguing with them – it was his voice more than the murmured pauses that meant Gabriel or the male officer were speaking. The woman was trying to speak over him but it didn't seem to be working and there was a moment when each of their voices was raised so much she could make out the words before a snapped command – probably for calm – brought the volume back down.

With each second, her ears strained to hear the tread of footsteps in the corridor. Time slowed to a crawl, each moment defined by the pounding in her ears, the too-loud sound of her own breathing, the prickling sensation that crawled across her skin. The adrenaline wouldn't abate and it wanted her to _go_ somewhere, to _do_ something, contradicting every instinct she should have been having to stay quiet and hidden. She tightened her fingers on the duvet over and over, the soft fabric bunching under her grasp so much she could feel her fingernails biting into her palms.

_Sit very still and no one can see you?_ But that never worked. Stillness could draw the eye – she knew that from her years of nursing. Catching the lack of movement that meant something was really wrong.

She was hidden, she reminded herself. They _couldn't_ see her. The bedroom wasn't even visible from the living room. And they needed a warrant or Gabriel's permission to search his flat.

Alone in the darkness, she found no reassurance in the conditions for legal police searches.

There was movement and Sandra swung herself onto the bed, under the covers, half curled up with her back to the door, but the footsteps weren't coming her way. The front door opened and closed again and silence dropped over the flat like a shroud, fear closing a fist around her heart. Sandra stayed where she was, holding her breath as someone approached the bedroom, trying not to screw her eyes shut when the door was eased open.

"You can come out," Sherlock said and she swallowed a gasp at the shock and the relief, managing to sit up slowly with what she hoped was some decorum, meeting a steady gaze that gleamed in the near darkness.

"Thanks," she managed, hoping the tremor in her voice wasn't noticeable.

Gabriel was in the living room, on the couch with his bad leg propped on a cushion, looking neither angry nor frightened. He looked almost nothing at all – but Sandra saw the cracks in the mask only because she knew him.

He _wasn't_ angry or frightened. He was livid.

It burned in his green eyes for a moment before he banked it, stretching a hand out of her. His grip was warm, tight, reassuring. For a second, she couldn't believe him.

"Should–" Sandra began then licked her lips, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. "Should I go home?"

"No, I prefer to have you in the building," Sherlock answered curtly. He didn't say it was safer and she wondered if it was. "Go up to my flat and wait there please. Make yourself at home."

Sandra hesitated, glancing back at Gabriel.

"It's one of Sherlock's business rivals causing problems," he said. By way of explanation it wasn't much, but it made her feel better having some sliver of information. They hadn't been arrested and it seemed no one had died.

"One of the security officers will meet you and let you in," Sherlock added. Sandra glanced back at him; there was the briefest flicker of uncertainty, so fleeting and shocking she was certain she must have imagined it. "Please."

"All right," she heard herself saying. Gabriel squeezed her hand again and, on impulse, she leant down and kissed him. There was surprise but no hesitation, nothing held back, when he kissed her in return.

"I'll see you soon," he promised.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's flat was huge.<p>

Sandra had no other words for it except how it made her feel by comparison: tiny and isolated. She stood in the living room, the sound of the door being shut and bolted by the security officer who had admitted her fading into nothing. For a moment there seemed to be no noise, then she heard the faint hum of a refrigerator motor.

That was it. No voices, no other background noise, not even the sound of traffic from outside.

It was as spotless was it was silent. The furniture in the living room was modern but refined and the room itself was impeccably decorated with the precise amount of accent pieces, each of which she thought probably cost more than the furniture had. It did nothing so crass as scream good taste; it merely suggested it and let her draw her own obvious conclusions.

She went into the kitchen, the lights dancing off gleaming surfaces and sleek new appliances. Everything she could see was state-of-the-art and it made her a little sad – none of seemed well used. She enjoyed cooking and got the distinct impression Sherlock never did any of his own, that someone he hired came and went, leaving no trace of themselves or their work behind.

The dining room was no different: tastefully decorated with what was probably a hand-carved oak table with a small but elegant vase complemented by a careful arrangement of perfectly dried flowers.

The whole place was beautiful.

And absolutely lifeless.

Sandra hugged herself loosely; she wasn't used to this, even with Gabriel's flat. He was a lot neater than most men she knew who lived on their own – probably because he had a cleaner – but he left traces of himself in every room, even if it was just something small, like a book on a table or a tea cup he hadn't yet put washed and put away. He had expensive tastes, too, but somehow the things he chose to decorate his flat seemed more like him, less something he'd picked because it looked precisely right in its designated spot.

She went back into the living room then down the corridor toward the bedrooms. There were three bedrooms, one of which was Sherlock's, the other two which didn't seem used at all. They were furnished and the beds were made up and – when she crept in and sniffed the sheets furtively – the linens didn't smell stale or dusty.

Sherlock's bedroom wasn't much different from the rest of the flat – well ordered and beautifully decorated. His ensuite had some touches that made it seem like someone really lived there – a toothbrush stuck haphazardly back into a holder, a razor left beside the sink.

There was an office, too, and it was a disaster. For a moment, Sandra was struck still by the absolute chaos that surrounded her, certain she'd wandered into someone else's flat by mistake. The bookshelves that lined the walls were littered with volumes, with books lying in piles on top of other books, taking up every inch of available space. The desk was a mess of files, papers, pens, and abandoned coffee mug and – incongruously compared to the rest of the flat – several tourist trinkets, including a tiny replica of Big Ben.

She moved towards it, fascinated. Half hidden under a paper next to it was an Eiffel Tower souvenir and, when she rounded the desk, she saw a worn postcard from somewhere called Frontignan that looked to be on the Mediterranean coast.

Sandra scanned the room again sadly. This whole flat and this was the only place any personality really came through.

She went back into the living room and settled on the couch, feeling alone. After a few minutes, she began to notice the subtle hints of a personality behind all the flawless décor; there was a small shelf of DVDs that included several French and German movies, as well as a few English ones, and all of the new _Doctor Who_ series. Sandra selected a disc at random and made herself a cup of tea while it was loading.

It was gone midnight by the time the disc had finished playing but she wasn't tired, the taut, wound up feeling still coiled in her stomach. Sandra shut off the telly and sat in the near-perfect silence. She wanted to go home; she was on days off but she needed to take care of her dog – maybe she could call downstairs and see if one of the security guards could manage it? The thought of just leaving made her nervous. After the incident with the police, she couldn't imagine Gabriel or Sherlock reacting very well if she were simply gone.

Sandra took her empty tea mug into the kitchen to wash it out and was about to ring down to the front desk when the door opened and shut and the sound of footsteps carried Sherlock Holmes down the hall and into view.

* * *

><p>Sherlock shut the door to his flat gratefully behind him, letting his eyes fall closed as he inhaled the familiar silence and warmth. He took another deep breath, using the meditative centring techniques he'd learned over a decade ago, but the sense of balance he sought eluded him, evaporating in a flash of anger.<p>

Retaliation wasn't unexpected but Jim's actions hovered on the edge of unreason even for him. Involving the police that way? It was one thing to have someone arrested – if Jim had done the same to him, Sherlock would have accepted it as part of the game he'd set into motion. Henry Walsh, for all his love of money, would not be traced back to Jim Moriarty. He'd ensured that. Walsh had met Jim but didn't know him by name; there was no way to draw a reliable connection back to him – at least no way Jim couldn't eliminate long before it was uncovered.

But to deface Scotland Yard? To put Sherlock's name on the building that was the very heart of the London Metropolitan Police?

_Should have seen it coming_, he chastised himself as he made his way down the corridor toward the living room. There had been too much recent involvement with the Met – Gabriel's shooting and Richard's disappearance. And given Gabriel's history with Sergeant Donovan seven years ago… it was too tempting for Jim to pass up. Another reason for Lestrade and Donovan to suspect him, to keep sniffing about and digging things up.

Well, let them. He'd set up his company to withstand this kind of scrutiny and it would hold. He'd have to increase security, tighten all of his nets, but it wouldn't look suspicious now.

He had to take more precautions for those closest to him, too. Gabriel would see to the details but Sherlock would oversee the process personally. John was the top priority, of course. The army training would help but Sherlock was not willing to let it stand at that. Jim would know by now – Sherlock had ensured he would – and it would make him angry, as Gabriel had predicted. There were a number of flats to let in John's area and he'd put people in them, people well trained in observation and, more importantly, sharp shooting.

He'd put some people on Harriet Watson as well, and John's mother. One could never be too careful.

Charles had increased security and Irene – he'd give her more, although he suspected she'd never need it. She was too resourceful in her own right. And too used to dealing out pain. The other lieutenants… he'd let them know and they could arrange it for themselves; Jim was most likely to attack John or Charles at this point. There was always a risk that he'd throw all caution to the wind and go after Gabriel but the younger man was already well protected. Sherlock would heighten that as well and put someone on Sandra and her family members.

He raked his hands through his hair and leant his head back, closing his eyes wearily. Everyone else he knew – Mycroft, Angela, his parents – could manage their own and probably already had.

He exhaled hard, dropped his head, and, in the moment before his eyes settled on her, he remembered that Sandra was in his flat.

* * *

><p>It was obvious he'd forgotten she was there and Sandra stayed still, aware that the Sherlock was both a genius and head of an international real estate firm – if the rather important detail that someone was in his flat had slipped his mind, she couldn't imagine what was actually going through it.<p>

It seemed like a private moment that she'd intruded on, watching him rake his hands through his hair and tilt his head toward the ceiling, eyes closed, shoulders slumped, exhaustion pulling at the edges of his features. This was a man in his own space, letting down all of his defences, unaware that he was being watched.

Then he dropped his head, opened his eyes, and saw her. In a heartbeat the mask was back, his features cool, smooth, his grey eyes only hinting at a mild irritation. Sandra swallowed on an apology; he'd asked her to come up here and she certainly hadn't done anything wrong.

"Can I go back down now?" she asked and there was barely a moment of hesitation before Sherlock nodded, all poise and solicitous neutrality.

"Gabriel will be expecting you," he replied. There was no real warmth in his voice but no coldness either. "He may want you to stay a few days."

"I need to go back to my flat," Sandra said. "My dog's there. And I need some clothes."

"I'll send someone to fetch the dog and bring back some belongings for you – a woman," he added when she stiffened and started to shake her head. "I'll have her come by Gabriel's so you can meet her and give her your keys. I assure you, nothing will be taken that does not make it back to you."

Sandra hesitated then nodded.

"Thanks," she said. The look Sherlock gave her in return was long and cutting as if trying to evaluate her sincerity.

"You're welcome, Sandra," he replied. Sandra let him show her to the door, stepping into the silent corridor, glancing back.

"Good night, Sherlock," she sighed and he nodded.

"Good night," he replied and shut the door gently, the sound of the bolts being thrown home echoing in silence of the hallway behind as she made her way to the lifts.


	70. Chapter 70

His day was longer than John Watson would have wanted it to be, but Jim Moriarty didn't bother with anything so frivolous as schedules and if he was going to act against anyone close to Sherlock, he wouldn't wait on Gabriel to make plans for their security.

So he'd dispensed with the medical advice that he knew was in his best interest and started his day early – but not before taking time to have breakfast with Sandra. It was one thing for her to be safe, it was quite another for her to feel safe. He'd ensured her protection – and that of her family – but the previous night had made her justifiably nervous. It had made him nervous, too. Bringing the police into it was risky even for Jim, but turning it against Sherlock like that made the message's author less of an investigative target than its recipient.

It was a long day and without Michael, he would have forgotten to each lunch. The time slid by so quickly that when his secretary interrupted him again, Gabriel had a moment's disorientation thinking it had gone teatime.

"Your three o'clock is here," his secretary said and Gabriel felt a flash of confusion and repressed irritation – he didn't have time to deal with a woman wanting to buy a townhouse on the Mediterranean and his secretary certainly should have known better.

"I told you to reschedule her," he replied and Michael nodded, hesitation and unease tightening his lips in equal measure.

"I've come a long way," said a voice behind his secretary, low, smooth, and French-accented. "And I'd rather not wait."

* * *

><p>A significant number of the favours Veronique had been owed were now balanced – covering her tracks had required a great deal of careful work and assistance, and arranging the time to get here had been no easy feat either.<p>

The look on Mitchell's face was well worth the lengths she'd gone to.

For a moment, he appeared seventeen again – or how he should have appeared at seventeen: cornered, unbalanced, startled. The seventeen year old boy who had approached her had been full of cocky confidence. She understood why now: there had bee a man behind him, feeding him lines, assuring him of details, that things would be taken care of to their mutual satisfaction.

Now, at twenty-five, in his office that overlooked the Thames – which she privately considered an unpleasant view – Gabriel Mitchell was stripped of his confidence, taken utterly off his guard.

Inwardly, Veronique crowed in triumph. Outward, she kept her smile cool and composed as she murmured a "_merci_" and effectively pushed Mitchell's secretary out by closing the door in his face. Without waiting, without invitation, she settled on the leather sofa, crossing one leg over the other, regarding him with a slight smile.

"Please, don't get up," she said, sticking with French. Her English was nearly flawless but his would be better – just as her French would be better than his. He opened his mouth to reply but she didn't give him the opportunity to voice the words he was framing. "You've done very well for yourself, Gabriel." – a slight flicker of distaste from him at the intimacy of his given name – "Not many in Interpol could aspire to such a glamorous lifestyle. Not many men your age could, either. Fortune has smiled on you, it seems."

For a moment, there was banked fire behind his eyes, outwardly directed at her but, she suspected, really aimed at himself. Rani Sharma had been so real, so perfectly imperfect, that he hadn't caught even a hint of deception in her story.

"Why are you here, Agent St. Jean?" he asked in English. The anger in his eyes had dulled but his gaze was still bright and sharp, displeasure tightening the corners of his mouth, some discomfort darkening his features as he shifted slightly in his chair.

"I need information," she replied plainly. "And you're the man who's going to give it to me."

"I am not," he snapped. "I'm a glorified real estate agent. I may sell to the rich and powerful but that doesn't change what I am. Information, Agent St. Jean? Unless you're genuinely interested in a holiday property on the Mediterranean, I can't help you."

"Can't you?" she asked smoothly.

"No," he replied. "And if you'll excuse me–"

"Real estate. The transfer of property from one owner to another."

He stared at her for half a moment as though trying to work out if she were joking, then nodded abruptly.

"Yes. You could call it that."

"Like the transfer of money from a shop's register to your wallet?"

There was another flicker of surprise across his features that made her smile slightly – she kept the expression deliberately cool, watching the irritation follow in the wake of his mild shock.

"You can't threaten me with that," he said and there was hidden anger in his voice, nearly concealed by simple factual observation.

"I don't have the authority to arrest you," she agreed. "Nor was there ever enough evidence to convince the local authorities. And now too much time has passed for you to be charged. With those crimes."

Veronique let the sentence hang and saw the almost perfectly repressed shadow of reaction in his eyes.

"One of the most interesting things about my job is that I never know what I might find when I start looking."

"Then by all means, look," he replied – she noted the slight balancing to his left side, probably unconscious by now, as he leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk.

"I've often found that those with the best hidden secrets are typically the most disposed to let us look," she replied. "They're always so self assured, so confident that they've covered all of their bases, but there's always something. Some small detail that doesn't quite fit, some thread that, when pulled, unravels the whole tapestry."

"And those who don't have any secrets?" Mitchell asked, quirking an eyebrow and Veronique let her lips curl into another small smile.

"Everyone has secrets, Mr. Mitchell. My concern is when those secrets break the law."

"I believe _M._ Chauvière has already provided you with some very critical information," Mitchell replied and Veronique repressed a snort – he didn't 'believe', he _knew._ He was making no attempt to hide that distinction from her but she didn't take the bait, refusing to let him sidetrack the conversation.

"He has and it's been useful. To a point. But it isn't enough."

"No?" Mitchell asked, cocking an eyebrow. "And what would be enough, Agent St. Jean?"

Veronique lost the smile, feeling the dry humour evaporate; the game was done now. This was business.

"Enough would be concrete information, Mr. Mitchell. Specifics. Names, dates, details. Something we can use to make arrests."

"If _M._ Chauvière has more information, I'm sure he'd be happy–"

"He'd be happy to string me along, yes, until it suited him to give me what I need in tiny doses that got us nowhere or until he decided he wasn't interested. I was content to play his game in February, Mr. Mitchell, but I'm not now. Now I need to _know_. If I don't know, if Interpol wastes its time chasing down leads and information you could give me right now, then it's murder."

"It's a banking crisis, Agent St. Jean–"

"Riots," she interjected. "People losing their jobs. People moving for work that's already become scarcer in other parts of Europe. Perhaps not masses starving as in the last century, but slow death. Less food, poorer health. Shorter life spans. Children underperforming in schools, robbing us of a qualified workforce. Political and economic instability. You may feel so insulated here, Mr. Mitchell, with the strength of the Pound and your comfortable office, but if you shake the foundations of the Euro, you shake the foundations of the EU. What then? Do we dissolve? Where does that leave your foreign workforce in this country? Your trade ties? Do the riots spread? Do people turn against those who may not be welcome here but who are at least tolerated? Do we lose lives to violence and poverty and link it all back to this and not call it murder?"

Mitchell opened his mouth to reply but Veronique cut him off again, nothing but dire promise in her voice.

"Help me stop them, Mr. Mitchell, or I will stop you."

* * *

><p>Gabriel felt a moment's unaccustomed shock; there was nothing but brittle honesty in her voice.<p>

She couldn't do it, he knew. But she'd bloody well try.

They already had the police sniffing about – it could only go badly for them if Interpol began to show interest. The Met was one thing. Lestrade and Donovan thought they were onto something – well, they were right – but their resources were limited and they had other cases.

But this was what Interpol did. He and Sherlock could stay ahead of them but it would be too much work. Would be too much of a distraction in a time when they needed all of their resources focused.

"You say murder, Agent St. Jean," he replied and her dark eyes narrowed slightly as she gave him a clipped nod. "You come after me – you come after this firm – and you'll be counting bodies in the streets."

She drew back slightly, surprised, and Gabriel seized the power she'd so neatly knocked out of his hands when she'd strode into the office.

"You talk instability – riots, lost jobs, weakening the Euro. You move against us and it will be worse than you can imagine. You pull on that thread and it won't just be the tapestry that unravels. The wall behind it will crumble and the rest of the house will burn."

He relished her moment of shocked silence, taking the opportunity to stand smoothly on his crutches, wishing he'd been able to balance himself internally this quickly when she'd arrived. Eight years working for Sherlock should have made it easier to deal with the shock that she'd thrown his way.

It displeased him that she'd so thoroughly blindsided him, that he'd seen nothing in Rani Sharma's story or background to suggest it was all a cover.

And there was a touch of pride. _This_ was the woman he'd turned down and walked away from for Sherlock. At seventeen, he'd sensed the better of the two choices – but if he'd gone with her, he didn't think he'd have been disappointed, either.

"What do you mean?" she demanded once he'd settled himself, leg propped on the table, crutches resting against the arm of the chair.

"Do you think we're the only ones?" Gabriel asked. St. Jean's nostrils flared but she stayed silent, watching him intently. "Do you think we're the worst? The Met, the _gens d'armes_, Europol, Interpol – you're all on the front lines, aren't you? Cleaning up the streets, keeping the peace. But you have no idea – _none_, Agent St. Jean – what it takes on this side. You talked about riots and chaos and isolation and me sat here in my fancy office. I don't want to look out and see my city burning. _We_ are what stands between you and complete break down. _We_ are the ones going after the worst of them, taking them apart slowly so that the whole structure doesn't collapse, leaving you to sift through the rubble. Without us, believe me, it would be so much worse."

Her narrowed gaze would have pinned him if he'd let it but Gabriel sat still under her scrutiny, letting the silence stretch out.

"And what would you have me do?" she asked. There was a bite to her question but it was a genuine enquiry; she wanted to know. She was going to listen.

"Help us," he replied plainly. "I will give you more information. Use it. Bring all the indiscretions in Greece to light. Show the Greek people how they've been played, punish the players. This is more complicated than you can imagine, Agent St. Jean. It's a web and even I don't know where all the strands lead, but some of them lead right back to the Greek banks."

"And in return?" she asked coolly, arching a dark brow. "What will you ask of me?"

"Cooperation. Someone wise enough to see an opportunity when it's presented."

That hit home. Her nostrils flared again and her eyes glinted, a cold light in their dark depths.

"This is not a path you want to go down," he said softly. "Trust me."

"Trust the word of a man whose been a thief since he was fifteen?"

"Who better?"

She was silent, pursing her lips into a thin white line, her gaze never leaving his. For a long moment, Gabriel thought she might refuse – the possibility was written in her features as she hovered on indecision, then she gave a sharp nod and he released a quiet breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Give me two days to get the information together. Come back Friday. Five-thirty. I'll have what you need, Agent St. Jean. Enough to get you where you need to be but you'll have to do some of the work on your own." He paused, lips twitching. "Interpol needs to reward you, after all, not me."

Another curt nod and she was gone, the door clicking firmly behind her, echoing slightly in his suddenly empty office. Gabriel counted to fifty then let out a long sigh, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He slowed his breathing deliberately, letting go of the tension and the shock.

The sound of the door opening made him jerk and he pulled his hands away from his eyes, fully expecting St. Jean to have come back and caught him unawares yet again, but it was Sherlock striding into his office, looking utterly smug and entirely too pleased with himself.

"How is our favourite French Interpol agent?" he enquired, settling himself smoothly into the chair opposite Gabriel, pale grey eyed gaze pinning the younger man. Gabriel stared at him, cajoling his brain to process the words differently than he'd heard them.

"How did you know?" he demanded. Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with one hand and Gabriel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Charles told you. He's been keeping an eye on her."

"Of course he told me; that's his job. But how do you think she found you in the first place? Oh, perhaps she could have eventually tracked down the information, but to trust that she'd find what I wanted and nothing else?"

There was a moment of disbelief before Gabriel swallowed a groan, shifting his bad leg slightly to ease the stiffness.

"You knew!" he accused. "You set this all up!"

"Yes. Obviously," Sherlock replied, his indifferent tone belied by the gleam in his eyes.

"_You_ let her find everything that led her here."

"And ensured she'd only find what was necessary to bring her to see you," Sherlock said crisply.

"You could have warned me!"

"So much better to see what you did without knowing."

"To see– wait, what? You– you put cameras in my bloody office?" He twisted, eyes roaming along the bookshelves, across the ceiling.

"The dust," Sherlock said and Gabriel snapped his gaze back to him, glaring.

"What?"

"You should pay more attention to the dust. Dust is eloquent. Two cameras. There and there." Gabriel followed his directions; one on either side of the room, hidden where they would command a view of the whole room. He returned to glaring but it slid from Sherlock like oil on water.

"This is _my_ office," he snapped.

"And you work for me. I needed to know what she said, Gabriel. And I needed it to be on her terms. If you hadn't been surprised to see her, if you had reacted any other way, she would have been suspicious. Rani Sharma _was_ a cleverly crafted tale."

"Why not have her see you then?" he demanded.

"She knows you. You two have a history of sorts. She also knows Charles… and knows he won't give her any more information. She's scarcely going to approach his employer in hopes of finding me more forthcoming."

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, regarding boss with narrowed eyes.

"You should have hired her when you had the chance," he said.

"Mm," Sherlock said, making another dismissive gesture. "A woman like that? No, far too clever to work for me."

"_I_ work for you," Gabriel snapped.

"And you're quite clever," Sherlock conceded, ignoring Gabriel's muttered 'quite' in response. "She'd have done well working for me, true, but she will do better by me where she is now. The Met can't be trusted, Gabriel, not right now. Not with Lestrade and Donovan sniffing about the way they are."

"Two cops out of the entire force," Gabriel sighed. He knew Sherlock was right but wasn't inclined to agree without a fight, not right now.

"Two voices in the wilderness now, yes. The problem being that their wilderness is filled with others who are trained to be as suspicious as they are. They could cause trouble if we let them. But Agent St. Jean… The mistrust of the Met on one hand, the support of Interpol on the other. Which do you imagine will carry more weight?"

"She's one agent," Gabriel pointed out. "One voice in her particular wilderness."

Sherlock's lips curled into a cool smile.

"I suspect that Agent St. Jean never tolerates the wilderness for long," he replied. "One agent right now, yes. But an agent like her? In two days, you will give her the information she requires. In two weeks, Interpol will be in our pocket and Jim will find another avenue of disruption closed to him."


	71. Chapter 71

The restaurant was precisely the kind of place John had imagined Sherlock would go – the kind Sherlock had denied frequenting on their last date. Once seated, John could hear the murmur of other conversations and the faint clink of silverware and glass but he couldn't see anyone except the servers that slid past. The low lighting made Sherlock's contrasts even more striking, his dark curls half lost in shadow, eyes bright, his skin a warmer tone. When he ordered their wine in French, John forced himself not to just stare greedily at Sherlock's lips; he understood none of the exchange but the language changed Sherlock's voice, making it dip and flow, sending a faint shudder down John's spine.

"Appetizers would be good," John said once the server had vanished. "Especially with the wine." It was a late meal and he was hungry – and he certainly didn't want the drink to go to his head, not in a place like this. Sherlock had intended for them to eat earlier, but had been understandably caught up in work. Having his name spray painted in five foot high letters across the front of Scotland Yard had made for what John was sure were some very tense meetings with the police.

Sherlock had managed to call him that night before John had seen it on the news, if only because it had been late enough that John had finished with telly for the day and had been reading. Retaliation by Jim Moriarty, Sherlock had explained, for Henry Walsh's arrest earlier in the week. John thought Sherlock was playing a dangerous game with Moriarty – but then, everything about the Irishman seemed dangerous. Sherlock had promised that Harry and his mother were safe, which made John feel slightly better about the whole situation.

And, he told himself firmly, he was not going to spend the night dwelling on Moriarty or Sherlock's work.

"Yes, good idea," Sherlock replied to John's suggestion. "Have you ever had _escargot_?"

John grinned, delighted at the opportunity to knock Sherlock down a peg.

"I was in the army, Sherlock. If you can name if, I've probably tried it, even if it was just on a dare. We had some great cultural exchange days with the French units – we made them try blood pudding and haggis, they made us try escargot and frog's legs. _Anything_ is good with enough garlic and butter. But I'd like something a bit more – normal."

"Have you _had_ haggis?" Sherlock asked with horrified fascination.

"Yeah," John said with a grin. "It's basically sausage. It was fine. Slightly better than some of the combat rations, actually." He didn't miss the faint shudder that gave away Sherlock's impassive expression. "But get something else, I'm not fond of snails."

In the end, John just let Sherlock order for him – he'd obviously been here enough for the staff to know his name, and John's experience with French cuisine was limited. They were served their wine and left in peace, the murmur of distant conversation flowing around them again.

"Can I ask something?" John enquired. "Been wondering about it for awhile." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and the doctor took it as an invitation to continue. "How did Irene Adler start working for you, exactly?"

At this, Sherlock raised both eyebrows, eyes glinting, but John held his ground until his partner's lips stretched into a smile.

"I'm tempted to not answer on the basis that it might impugn Irene's honour – but she's never been particularly concerned with that. Are you sure you want to know? I'd hate to spoil any sort of image you have of her."

"I want to know," John said. "An actress working for you? Seems a bit of a strange chance in careers."

"Not at all," Sherlock replied smoothly. "In fact, as an actress, she's particularly well qualified to work for me. There was nothing I need to teach her in that regard. She also has… other skills that transferred easily to this profession."

"Other skills?" John asked.

"Surely you've heard the rumours," Sherlock admonished and John felt his eyes widened.

"You mean the scandal? But I thought– that was all over the tabloids! They say that sort of stuff all the time! They're so caught up in the s– personal lives of those celebrities I wonder how they have time for their own."

"Most rumours have at least a grain of truth, John," Sherlock said.

"Are you saying that she– what– Irene Adler? _Really_?"

"The tabloids don't know half of it, of course; Irene is neither stupid nor ignorant about how to maintain her privacy. Some things do get out, however… As to the circumstances regarding her employment with me, that's information that only a very select handful of people know."

"You can't tell me," John said, feeling slightly disappointed.

"I see no reason you can't be one of those select few," Sherlock replied.

"But here?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged lightly, sipping his wine. "There's no one here paying us any undue attention, nor anyone within earshot who's listening to our conversation. The staff here are very willing to accommodate my requirements. If you'd like to know, I'd be happy to tell you."

"Yeah," John said. "I do. She had a really good career – why give it up?"

"Because she had two very good careers, one of which she still has. But five years ago there was an… incident involving a certain person associated with the British royal family who had engaged Irene's rather specialized services. Mycroft caught wind of it – because he can't abide not knowing what's happening in the hallowed halls of government – but he didn't know who she was, only that there was a serious risk of scandal if any of this surfaced. He asked me to use my connections to find out the other involved party was."

"So that's how you found her," John said.

"No, actually. She found me. Two months of searching came up with nothing until she walked into my office and informed me in no uncertain terms that if I didn't stop looking for her, she would happily provide the police with all of the information she'd gathered on me."

John raised his eyebrows, managing to put his wine glass down, trying to gauge if Sherlock was serious. There was a gleam in those pale eyes – admiration, John thought. And fondness.

"I offered her a job on the spot," Sherlock said. "She didn't accept, not immediately, but Mycroft found out who she was through other channels. He leaked some information to the press, enough to expose her… it wouldn't have ruined her acting career, of course, but it did damage her marriage. When she found it easier to step out of the spotlight, she came back to me."

"So she's really a…" John trailed off, uncertain about the proper term.

"Dominatrix. Yes. It makes her particularly skilled at extracting information that clients may otherwise be reluctant to share. One of the advantages of being a dominatrix – as I understand it – is that most people are inclined to think any interaction she has is sexual in nature."

John frowned a moment then realization dawned and he grinned. Sherlock's lips stretched into an answering smile, long fingers tapping the stem of his wine glass absently.

"Precisely. It allows her to conduct meetings that would be noted – and suspicious – if it were me or Gabriel."

"That must be useful," John commented.

"Oh, you have no idea. And she's very good at her job, of course."

John swallowed on the question that sprung immediately to his lips – he really didn't want to know. And Sherlock was precisely the sort of person who would know that about Irene, whether through personal experience or not.

"Well lucky you found her, then," he said instead.

"Luck has nothing to do with it. I'm very, very good at spotting talent where others don't."

"And modest, too, I see," John replied with a grin.

"Why be modest when something's true?" Sherlock asked with a slight shrug. "I'm not used to being bested at my own game, though. It's why I hired her. An actress and a dominatrix and she had something on me… Better to have her on my side than be a thorn in my side."

"So what do you do, put out job ads otherwise? I mean, it can't be a typical interview, right? But I can't imagine you do with everyone what you did to me. I had nothing except a sister with a gambling debt."

"Talent can be anywhere and can crop up at any time. The key is to observe. And in your case, John, you also had the necessary skills I needed."

"You make it sound so easy."

"It's not as hard as you think," Sherlock contradicted. "Most people just don't want to make the effort – or don't want to see uncomfortable truths."

John chuckled ruefully, twisting the stem of his wineglass idly between his thumb and forefinger. He could have used that sort of advice years ago. He'd been deliberately blind and it had only hurt more the longer he'd resisted opening his eyes.

He shook the thought away, refocusing, meeting Sherlock's observant gaze.

"Well if everyone put their minds to it, it'd be harder for you to do business," he pointed out. Sherlock smiled again, the expression softening his features.

"And because of that I'm always thankful that the majority of the population is happy to live in their clouds of oblivion. Even if it can be galling at times."

Their meals arrived, putting the conversation on hold, and Sherlock switched the topic seamlessly once the server had departed. John didn't fail to notice the change and smiled to himself, appreciating it. He didn't want to dwell on anything unpleasant tonight; the food and the company were far too good to bog himself down in old regrets.

* * *

><p>When John excused himself briefly, Sherlock waited until the doctor was out of sight then pulled out his phone, sending a quick text to Gabriel.<p>

_Find out who John Watson's former boyfriend is_.

* * *

><p>Sherlock accompanied him into 221 Baker Street and John hesitated slightly as the front door shut behind them, enveloping them in the soft silence of the common corridor. Was Sherlock intending to come upstairs with him? John wasn't sure how long his resolve would last if that happened – he'd had more wine at dinner than would be advisable if he had to fend off the suggestions of someone he actually did want to shag. John felt like he wasn't quite ready to stop waiting but he was likely to change his mind very quickly if Sherlock joined him tonight.<p>

Also – more embarrassingly – he deliberately hadn't purchased condoms or lube yet, to avoid giving into temptation. Of course, it would be all too easy to dispense with the need for condoms despite what the doctor in him thought about that and he had any number of more than acceptable substitutes for lube among his medical supplies.

And, he realized, he was having a frank discussion with himself about safe sex supplies while Sherlock was watching him.

"No," his partner said and John refocused, blinking.

"No?"

"I'm happy– I'm _willing_ to make my good-night here, John. I will go upstairs with you when you ask me to."

John let out a silent sigh of relief; his internal debate regarding the necessary materials appeared to have gone unnoticed.

"Unless you need to barge in for completely work related reasons, of course," John said, lips stretching into a grin, shoulders relaxing.

"A genuine medical emergency outweighs any need you have for privacy," Sherlock sniffed and John's grin widened.

"You know, the number of times you've stormed into my flat for a genuine medical emergency is zero," he pointed out.

"You're my doctor," Sherlock replied. "Any emergency involving you is therefore medical."

"Yeah right," John chuckled.

"Besides, I'm equally lacking in condoms and lube at the moment."

John's laughter turned into a sudden choking cough.

"What?"

"Obviously I have them in my flat, but I don't tend to carry them around with me."

John managed to meet his partner's eyes and felt himself turn a blazing red when Sherlock's lips curled into a sly smile.

"I might not have guessed if you hadn't had that moment of panic," Sherlock added and John blushed harder, clearing his throat in a wasted attempt to distract from it.

It was while was trying to find his voice and right his mind onto a more suitable track that Sherlock leant down and kissed him. All of John's thoughts fled with the light touch of warm lips. He inhaled, breathing in the subtle, intoxicating cologne that only augment Sherlock's natural scent, losing himself in it so quickly that it took a moment to remember he was supposed to be doing something with his lips in return. When he kissed back, Sherlock chuckled, a deep, quiet rumble that purred through John's chest.

Sherlock drew away slightly without breaking the contact, then deepened the kiss again, letting it linger a moment longer.

"Thank you for your company tonight, John," he murmured, lips still so close that John could nearly feel them moving, his breath ghosting over John's skin.

"You're welcome," John managed.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Sherlock said. It didn't sound like a request or an order, but a statement of fact. John nodded, eyes dropping closed again when Sherlock brushed their noses together.

"Good night," his partner said softly. John swallowed, willing his voice not to catch.

"Good night," he replied. Sherlock smiled, kissed him again, then let himself out the door.

John stood in the corridor for a few minutes until he felt steady enough to move, then made himself check on Mrs. Hudson, who assured him she was fine and that she was about to turn in for the evening. He went upstairs and took a cold shower, stopping just short of chattering teeth when he climbed out and bundled himself in his bathrobe. His phone buzzed on the counter and John sighed, scooping it up, aware that he was technically always on call. It was unlikely anyone would text him in a medical emergency but with Sherlock, he never knew for sure.

_James says hi_.

John rolled his eyes, slipping the phone into his pocket.

"Hilarious," the doctor muttered but with a slight smile. Jamie had gone out to a pub with some friends from his tour in Iraq and it was apparently the height of comic wit to steal his phone and send prank texts. John considered texting back and ordering them as a captain to return Jamie's phone to him but left it. He wasn't getting drawn into that kind of battle with drunk former soldiers. He was too sober to win.

Instead, he puttered around the flat a bit then got ready for bed, slipping gratefully between the sheets in the warm, familiar darkness. He was asleep almost as soon as he'd closed his eyes, smiling contentedly and thinking of Sherlock's good-night kiss in the moment before he drifted off.

He awoke just as it was beginning to get light outside and yawned hugely, stretching. John lay in the still silence for a few minutes, half dozing, then sat up, shaking his head to dislodge the last lingering tendrils of sleep before reaching for his phone to check the time.

There was another message from Jamie and he sighed, opening the text programme, wondering what nonsense the mechanic's friends had got up to after John had gone to bed.

His amusement evaporated, leaving a tightness in his lungs and chest as he read the second text and put it together with the first one.

_James says hi._

_Guess which one._


	72. Chapter 72

The darkness was so absolute that Jamie needed to reach up and touch his face to make sure his heavy-lidded eyes had actually opened. The sudden tug and resistance on his wrists, lancing pain up his arms, brought a narrow realization that he wasn't at home in bed, he wasn't waking up with the blurriness of a mild hangover. He sucked in a deep breath and held himself still; he recognised the feeling almost immediately. It had been over a decade since his drug resistance training, but the memory of morphine was a lot closer and this felt nearly the same.

The rush of adrenaline was scorching the cotton wool feeling in his head, sending burning waves through his nerves to tense his muscles against a threat he couldn't see. Jamie drew another deep breath and held it, trying to focus on what he knew, what his training had taught him – don't give into the panic, use whatever senses were available, don't try anything stupid.

He couldn't feel anything on his face so he wasn't blindfolded; it really was pitch dark. The jump in his heart rate made him want to breathe faster in response but he struggled to keep it in check – he needed to be able to hear. If there was anyone else there, if there were distant voices, then someone might hear him if he called for help–

_Jesus Christ_, he thought, closing his eyes again, holding in what threatened to be a desperate gasp. He could still make noise, he reminded himself. Bang on something, kick, hit, anything like that. He tried shifting again, realizing with cold dismay that he was bound so neatly he couldn't move. His fingers curled, that was it.

A chair, he realised. He was tied to a chair. Hands behind his back, ankles bound to separate legs. He could probably rock back and forth but the noise would be muffled and he was likely to tip himself over.

_Right_, he told himself, trying to refocus. Breathing out slowly, he opened his eyes to give his vision a chance to adjust to any light, and listened.

There was no noise other than his own breathing – too harsh, fast, and loud despite his best efforts – then the sounds of the distant city began to filter in. He thought he could hear traffic and maybe an aeroplane overhead or a helicopter. Still in London then.

_No_, he told himself. Could be another city – he had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. They – who _were_ they? – could have moved him somewhere. He shook the thought aside; it didn't matter. He was in a city and a city meant people. People who might have noticed something. And John would start looking for him eventually, hopefully sooner rather than later. If the lads at the pub had thought his absence was odd–

His phone. They might have tried calling him and if it was still on, the police could find him. If he could just reach– but his jacket was gone and his hands were tied too securely behind his back even if it hadn't been. He'd been left with his jumper but the wallet was gone from his back pocket, too. He could feel that now that he paid attention to it.

Wherever he was, it was cool, he realized. He could feel it against his skin, a subtle lack of warmth in the air. It wasn't too cold and it probably wouldn't kill him. His hands were already numb but not from the temperature, he thought. His legs felt numb, too.

_Okay,_ he thought, taking another deep breath. _Okay._ The room around him had shifted from total darkness to faint lines drawn as deeper shadows but he couldn't actually see anything. No sense of how big the room was or what it was for.

And there was someone else there.

The hairs of the back of his neck stood up. He wasn't sure what had alerted him – a small sound, a scent, the movement of the air? But there _was_ someone there. He could feel them now, a gaze on him despite the darkness.

He opened his mouth and shut it again. Even if he could have spoken, asking who was there would have been a stupid move.

_Christ,_ he thought again, the panic threatening to come back, tightening his lungs, settling like a cold weight in his stomach. He fought for calm, closing his eyes, trying to concentrate on his breathing. Someone was watching him from the shadows. It was like a nightmare, like the monster who'd lived in his closet when he'd been five and snuck out at night to watch him sleep.

Now it was a person. At five years old, the monsters had been the worst. Then he'd learned what people could do to each other.

But this was insane – he didn't know anything. He was a mechanic, for God's sake. And it wasn't like they could make him talk. Jamie pursed his lips against the sudden wave of hysterical laughter that threatened. The change in his breathing would be enough to signal that he was conscious.

It came anyway, a faint, startled inhalation when he heard someone humming. The thread of sound paused, then resumed, sounding almost amused. Jamie held his breath, straining his hearing, barely able to make out the sound let alone a melody.

_Fuck,_ he thought. _Who the hell are you?_

Footsteps.

He sat rigid, flexing his numb fingers uselessly, breathing as silently as he could. The steps were measured and deliberate as if the darkness wasn't a problem. The humming grew stronger, rising and falling, not really carrying a tune. As if whoever was doing it was absently passing the time. He tried to track the footsteps but the echoes were off – sometimes they seemed closer, sometimes further.

"Hello, James," a voice purred, close enough that it made him jerk, sending arcs of pain across his shoulders, down his bound arms. "So _good_ to finally meet you."

He turned toward where the voice had been as the humming resumed. It was a song, he realized. He didn't recognize it but there was a pattern he could hear now that the speaker was closer to him.

"_Stars shining bright above you_…" the voice murmured. Jamie screwed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate. Irish accent, he thought, and soft, changing tone a lot. "'Course there are no stars here but you can remember, can't you? All those _loooong_ nights in Iraq and Afghanistan, looking up at the sky. _Night breezes seem to whisper I love you… Birds singing in the sycamore tree_… Can't stand birds personally but we have something in common there, you know. Besides the name. Figured out what it is?"

Jamie opened his eyes again, trying to see something. The shadows to his right seemed deeper – if his captor was there, he was wearing dark clothing, nothing to pick up the light.

"Would you tell me if you had?" the voice purred. "No? Cat got your larynx?" There was the sudden sound of laughter, as clear and ringing as a bell. "All the queen's surgeons and all the queen's men couldn't put you back together again? Have you got it yet, James?

"It's the singing."

The voice was right next to his ear, so close he could feel the other man's breath, almost feel his lips. He jerked away before he could stop himself, nearly toppling, managing to keep his balance as a low chuckle made his skin crawl.

"Can't do much of that anymore, can you? Do you miss it? I don't know what I'd do without it. How do you manage it, James? James, James. No one calls you that, mm? So we have that in common, too."

The voice had circled him now and he could feel its owner standing right behind him. His fingers twitched again, wrists straining at the restraints. If he could just get some give–

"Mm, no," the voice chuckled and he felt a slight pressure, a fingertip, on the ropes that held him. "I know a man who's _very_ good with knots. Are you named after the apostle, James? I was. Such expectations – how do you meet them? How to live up to that? So I thought: why bother? Why not make my _own_ name?"

The voice pulled away from him, circling him. Jamie pursed his lips and held onto the anger to choke out the fear.

"What would you say to me if you could, James? Name, rank, serial number? But I know those things – _bor-ing!_ Such a dull little life, isn't it, compressed into three small facts? All anyone gets to know about you if theycatch you but who cares? What do you know, James? Tell me you know nothing? They always say that, don't they? I don't know anything, Jim, please don't hurt me, I don't know anything, I swear!"

_Jim_. The name rung an urgent bell in the back of his mind – John had said something about a Jim, hadn't he? Someone Sherlock knew?

_Oh God,_ he thought, remembering. The mad man John had told him about on his first day. Something to do with the man who'd shot Gabriel Mitchell – here in the darkness, he couldn't remember the details.

_Someone Sherlock knew._ But Sherlock wasn't anything to him, just a boss. John was the one who– he felt his breath catch. Did he have John, too? He closed his eyes again, trying to ignore the incessant humming, struggling to remember what had happened. He'd been on his way out, heading for the pub, then nothing. Pedestrians, drivers, CCTV cameras – someone must have seen something. The memory was missing as though it had never happened, as if he'd just stepped off the pavement into this room, but the morphine had been like that sometimes.

"_Dreams till sunbeams find you… Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you…_" Jim sang, circling behind Jamie again. He felt fingertips being dragged lightly across his shoulders and couldn't repress the shudder, trying to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.

"Did Sergeant Brian Clement leave his worries behind him? Trip down the road, tipped Rover, broken hip, back to England, and whoops! Sergeant James McTavish moves up to Bastion, home of running water and reliable internet and a brand new unit and all of the people…" Jamie jerked, twisting his head, trying vainly to see the man behind him.

_How the bloody hell_–

"Captains and doctors, oh my! Who knew?" He leant close again; Jamie could feel his breath against his cheek, his neck, raising goose bumps and sending a shudder down his spine. "Tell me, James, what's it like to fall in love? Do you dream of her?"

There was a low chuckle at his sharp inhale. Jamie forced himself to sit still, not to be baited. Tricia was easy enough to find out about and she was well guarded and more than capable of taking care of herself.

"But then, accidents _do_ happen," Jim said as though reading his mind. Jamie set his jaw, staring straight into the darkness. "I should know. I'm usually the reason they do. It's so easy to slip past the defenses, isn't it? A bribe here, a little pressure there, the right look, the right walk. It's all in," Jim's voice took on a deeper tone even as it pulled back, his shoes clicking on the floor again as he walked away a few paces, "in the walk. Look the part, act like no one will ever question you _and no one ever will_.

"Your own dear dad knows that."

Jamie cursed the creak of the hard wood as he shifted and heard another peal of laughter. The echoes came back at them – they must be somewhere big and mostly empty but he couldn't smell anything that gave any more hints. If only he could see or move… He flexed his wrists again uselessly.

"How long's it been, James? James Ian McTavish. How long since Ian walked out that door. Just going out to buy some cigarettes! They _really_ do that, don't they? I'll be back in twenty minutes and now it's been twenty _years_ and those must be the best cigarettes _in the world_, don't you think?

"Did you mind, seeing the last of him? Bye-bye, Daddy, hurry back. Mummy's got two little brats at home. What to do then? Do what you can, be a _man_. Join the army, go off to war, send home the paycheques to mummy and your sister with her own little brats now. Stayed away from it yourself, didn't you? Awfully noble of you, James. Don't want all sorts of hearts to get broken but then there it is! Such a lovely woman, isn't she? A doctor and a captain and oooh that could've got you in trouble but you were so careful, oh-so-careful, and now you're back and it doesn't matter because someone put a bomb in _just_ the right place! Boom! James Ian McTavish comes home and can't talk and– Here. We. Are."

The footsteps clicked back toward him leisurely, as if Jim was taking a stroll, unhurried.

"They _say_ absence makes the heart grow fonder. Does yours grow fonder for our lovely Captain Remsen? And hers for you? Your mother, now, her heart's lost, isn't it? Still beating away, oh yes, but who are you when you go visit her? Who's the fetching Ellie? Who are the grandkids? Strangers? Living in a past that was before you or doesn't include you now. But your father– oh yes, she remembers _him_. Calls you Ian sometimes, doesn't she? Calls him Ian, too."

He could feel Jim right in front of him, grinning at him through the darkness. If he concentrated, he could see the outline of a face, the line around the edges, the nose, the quick gleam of teeth.

"And you didn't know, did you? Came back from getting his cigarettes but the kids are all grown up and gone so what _is_ there to do but visit the wife?"

Jamie held back a silent snarl; that couldn't be true. Ellie would have said something, would have noticed. She wouldn't have let their father in to see their mother after two decades without a word. He sucked in another deep breath and held it before releasing it slowly – he was being taunted for reaction, nothing more.

"_Stars fading but I linger on dear… Now I am longing to linger till dawn dear… Just sitting there…_ And what of John Watson, hmm? Do you think his will grow fonder for you while you sit here? He'll try and find you, won't he? Oh yes. So brave and loyal. It's touching, it really is. He'll go to Sherlock and Sherlock– _Sherlock_–" Jim paused as though savouring the word, humming gently. Jamie closed his eyes, focusing on his heart rate. He'd dealt with some psychopaths in the army but he'd never been at one's mercy. He tried not to think that Jim probably didn't have any mercy.

He was alive because Jim wanted something from Sherlock. He had no idea what it was.

"And Sherlock will come out and play!" Jim exclaimed, voice bright with manic glee. "All this time, this was all it took! Imagine that– if only I'd known! Then again, he's never had a _John_, has he? Mustn't touch the Frenchman – not if I want to keep my fingers. Mustn't touch the puppy – not if I want to keep my life. Mustn't touch the little doctor, either – _but no one said anything about the doctor's things._

"And who knows, maybe he'll even find you in time! After all," His footsteps circling again, "No one wants to die alone. Isn't that what she said to you, in the end? Corporal Cora Duffy dying in a field hospital in Iraq. 'Please don't leave me, Jamie. Please.'"

He swallowed a soundless growl – there was no way Jim could have known that. None. There'd been nurses and orderlies there, yes, but how had he found someone who remembered that day? She'd been a good friend and he'd stayed with her until the very end, past the end, until someone had come and told him gently they had to take her away.

"Maybe John won't leave you alone now. But that all depends on Sherlock, doesn't it? How well he plays this game. He's always been so good at it – but good enough for you, James?"

Jim was humming again, the sound grating on Jamie's nerves, making him bite the insides of his cheeks against curling his lips. Somehow, Jim would be able to tell, even if he couldn't see it.

"Did you sing for her, at the end? Of course you did. Do you remember what? How do you live now that it's gone? I couldn't stand it for a minute. Such suffocating silence. Why not cut out your tongue, cut off your ears? Stop it all, end the silence? It's never pure, is it, silence? There's always something in it, your ears playing tricks, noises that aren't there. But if you _sing_ – and now you can't sing. And you're all alone."

There was a pause, a soft chuckle.

"Well, not alone. You've got me. But I can't stay. Nooo, too much to do. I'll be waiting on Sherlock, you know. Watching him. Him and his little doctor and if they're clever, they might get you. Can't let them win _too_ easily though, can we? Not much of a game if I do _that_."

Jim was in front of him again; Jamie could feel the breath on his face now and resisted the urge to pull his head back, holding himself steady.

"I'll be seeing you… You've been _fun_."

Then Jim was gone, his footsteps echoing on the floor as he walked away, his singing voice trailing back to meet Jamie's ears.

"_Say nighty night and kiss me… Just hold me tight and tell me you miss me… While I'm alone and blue as can be…Dream a little dream of me… _Good night, James! Someone will be with you shortly! Sweet dreams!"

He strained his hearing as hard as he could, listening as Jim's footsteps faded into nothingness and he was left alone in the pressing darkness.


	73. Chapter 73

Sherlock met him in the hallway, dark curls dripping onto a hastily donned, unbuttoned shirt.

"John, what is it?" he demanded. Mutely, John held out his phone, letting Sherlock close the rest of the distance between them, bare feet silent on the thick carpet.

"When did you get get these?"

"Just now– I mean, the second one– I got the first one last night but didn't see them both until this morning. I came straight here – I tried calling but you weren't answering."

"When was the last time you saw Jamie?" Sherlock pressed, using the questions to push John through the obvious shock, watching him carefully for the first hint of army training reasserting itself, uncertain if that would be helpful in this situation.

"Yesterday," John replied then ran his hands through his hair in a sharp, agitated motion. Sherlock tucked the phone into his pocket and covered John's hands with his own, drawing them away from John's head.

"Exactly when yesterday?"

"Um– around seven. He was going out with some friends to a pub. He came up to say good-night before he left."

"John, I need you to think very carefully. Do you recall seeing anyone or hearing anything unusual last night? Anything at all?"

John met his eyes, frowning, then shook his head.

"No, no, nothing. And I watch, Sherlock, I do. Because of Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock nodded carefully; he knew that.

"Nothing at all? No strange noises?"

"No, no, it was quiet. A normal night. Mrs. Hudson was – oh, God, Mrs. Hudson!" He moved to pull away but Sherlock stopped him.

"I'll send someone," he said and pulled out his own phone, sending Cheryl orders to go round and check on Mrs. Hudson and to stay there with her. "Have you tried calling him?"

"Not that he could answer," John managed.

"Was it going straight to voicemail or ringing through?"

"Ringing through," John managed numbly. "And I've been texting – nothing."

Sherlock nodded, unable to shake that desperate brown eyed gaze. He'd never seen John look anything approaching frightened – let alone terrified – and the expression on his partner's face sent a bright flare of rage through it. Sherlock swallowed on it, keeping it under control.

"Come inside, John," he said, slipping a hint of firmness into his gentle tone as he gripped John's shoulders and led him forward. John faltered, staring at him, and Sherlock shook his head.

"If his phone is on, I can track it using its GPS signal. Come with me. Please."

"Jim's got him, Sherlock. He wouldn't make it that easy."

Sherlock gave a curt nod, focussing on getting the doctor into his office with some effort. John's gaze wanted to drag him back, wanted to distract him.

"He will if he wants us to find something," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, _Jim has him_."

This time, he allowed himself to meet John's eyes.

"I know," he said.

"Why?" John growled.

Sherlock hesitated a moment without intending to, then shook his head when John gave him a hard look.

"I don't know," he lied. He demanded Jamie's phone number and John gave it to him, then seemed to realise he was not confined to staying in one place and came around the desk to stand behind Sherlock. Sherlock could feel the heat of his partner's body but – for once – it was not distracting. He kept himself focussed easily on the tracking system, although John jerked, pulling away slightly, when Jamie's phone showed up on the city map.

"Does he have any reason to be in Somers Town?"

He glanced up to see John frowning at the screen and nodding slowly.

"No, I don't think– yes, sorry, the pub he was going to was there." His eyes stayed trained on the monitor for a moment longer, then dropped down to meet Sherlock's, bright brown and blazing. "But he wouldn't– Jim wouldn't just– keep him there, would he?"

_Unlikely_, Sherlock thought but said out loud: "We'll go find out."

* * *

><p>John reached for the door was as soon as the car pulled to a stop but Sherlock leant over, nearly dislodging the laptop he was holding, and snagged John's wrist, fingers tightening enough that there was a sharp warning in the gesture. John tugged back instinctively, a glare darting across the small space that separated them.<p>

"Wait," Sherlock insisted. John growled; they knew where Jamie's phone was. His heart was hammering in his chest in time with the desperate mantra in his head of _please God, let him be there._ He knew it wouldn't be that simple, not with Jim, and the fear mixed with the frantic hope, making him nauseous.

"We're _here_," John said, his voice bordering on a snarl.

"I know," Sherlock said. "But we don't know who may be waiting for us."

Reluctantly, John accepted this was true. He swallowed hard, trying to reassert some control. He'd been oscillating between panic and the discipline ingrained in him through years of military training.

_Concentrate, Watson_, he told himself. He needed to treat this like a recovery mission. Someone had taken one of his men. Charging in unarmed and uninformed wouldn't help Jamie and might very well get them both killed.

Sherlock had released his wrist and John felt cold at the loss of contact, but his partner – no, right now, his _boss_ – was putting aside the laptop and scanning the surrounding area from behind the obscurity of the tinted car windows. John sucked in a deep breath and made himself do the same, wishing he had a better vantage point, better visibility. In the car at ground level, he was all too aware of how limited he was.

Without breaking his focus, Sherlock leant forward and slid aside the glass panel that separated them from the driver.

"Anything?" he asked.

"No, sir, roofs clear."

Sherlock unbuckled and twisted to see behind them, scanning the buildings, the pavement, the street. He took his phone smoothly from his pocket when it rang, answering it without moving his gaze.

"Gabriel," he said by way of greeting.

"No police activity in the area, no unusual traffic patterns this morning," Gabriel's voice came through the small speaker.

"Pull the CCTV footage."

"I'm already working on it. Cheryl called in; Mrs. Hudson is fine."

John felt a wave of relief threaten to drown him and resisted the sensation. He swallowed on a bitter laugh; he'd been hired to protect Mrs. Hudson – and it hadn't been her who'd been targeted.

"Good," Sherlock said and rung off. He stayed silent for a few more minutes, watching hard, waiting, and John did what he could, scanning the light press of pedestrians, studying unmoving vehicles for signs that anyone was in them.

"Gerald," Sherlock finally said. The driver nodded and slipped out of the car, coming round to Sherlock's side and opening the door. John was shocked by the action – surely right now, Sherlock could manage his own door? But it was the look of things, he realised. The appearance of normality, of control.

_God_, he thought, and shuddered. _Are they like this with each other all the time?_

He was suddenly terrified, not just of Jim but also of Sherlock. What did he do that John didn't even suspect? No – _how much_ did he do that John didn't even suspect?

The door was opened for him and John slid out, keeping his movements under tight control. He stood beside Sherlock on the pavement, feeling the cool air on his skin, seeing his breath hang in front of him when he exhaled. They were in the midst of a cold snap, the daytime temperatures hovering below zero. The thought made John uneasy but he did not know why.

He stared at the pub, angry that Jim had picked it. Why this one? Why here? Sherlock was watching carefully, grey eyes panning the facade slowly. John did the same but saw no hints of enemy movement in the windows, in the darkened doorway. He followed his boss to the door and Sherlock raised a gloved hand, rapping smartly on the glass. John stiffened when he heard footsteps. The bolts were undone and the door drawn back to reveal a smiling man in his early fifties smiling back at them.

"He said you'd be coming," the man commented and John felt another dull flash of shock. "Come in."

* * *

><p>The barman was no threat: early fifties, slightly overweight, unarmed, friendly with a hint of steel underneath – used to forcibly evicting patrons – but nowhere near strong or swift enough to concern Sherlock.<p>

He stepped inside behind the man and glanced around: everything was done in dark woods and deep reds, high ceilings lost in darkness, low hanging lights, most of them off. A normally busy establishment, judging by the scuff marks on the bar, the worn floor. Chairs upturned and resting on tables, the smell of chemical pine in the air – partway through cleaning.

"Jim owns this place?" John muttered behind him.

"Yes," Sherlock replied and felt the shock that radiated off the doctor.

"You _knew_ that?"

"Not until now." Sherlock knew every single piece of property he himself owned in the city – and nothing got purchased anywhere in the UK without his direct approval. He owned several establishments like this, in fact; they were very profitable. He kept extensive records – both mental and physical – on Jim's holdings, and filed this one away to be documented later. He strongly suspected Jim did not know every last place he owned.

That might prove useful.

But not right now.

"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded. Jamie or Jim – either James would suffice.

"No one here but me and the pigeons," the barman said. Sherlock saw John glance around instinctively but ignored the comment. He was clearly not lying about being alone, though – neither too much nor too little eye contact, nor was he avoiding glancing at any particular spot in the bar.

"He left you instructions," Sherlock snapped. The barman gave him a nod in response and Sherlock resisted a very shocking primal urge to punch him. The look on John's face – the restrained fear – made something inside of him want to snap. He wrestled it under control, aware of how dangerous it was at the best of times – and even more so now.

"Look and listen," the man replied.

John opened his mouth to demand a further explanation but Sherlock put a lightly restraining hand on his arm. He scanned the dim interior again and spotted it – a small gleaming object out of place on the bar's surface, almost tucked out of sight.

"John," he said, pointing. The doctor followed his gaze, confused for a moment, and Sherlock saw the flash of realisation tense his muscles. John strode toward the bar, movements sharp, military, and Sherlock followed, reaching past his partner to pluck Jamie's phone from the countertop.

"Look," he murmured to himself.

"And listen," John snapped. Sherlock nodded, aware of the anger being directed his way at his cool reactions, at his perceived disinterest. He unlocked the phone, frowning when it displayed a paused song. He tapped the play button and an unfamiliar voice filled the space around them, Scottish accent audible despite the fact that he was singing.

Sherlock had never heard this voice before and he knew he never would – not beyond this – but the look on John's face was confirmation enough.


	74. Chapter 74

"We need to go to the police, Sherlock."

In the dim lighting of the car's interior, Sherlock's grey eyes gleamed.

"No."

"_What?_ Sherlock, Jamie's in danger! We need–"

"If we went to the police, how do you imagine it would go? How would I possibly extricate myself from this sort of situation? What good would it do anyone if I'm arrested or my movements are hampered by a police investigation?"

John stared at him, eyes flickering over Sherlock's features, searching for something he couldn't find.

"Oh and this is about you, is it?" he managed.

"It isn't about Jamie, John. I am _not_ trying to downplay the severity of what's happened, but had he wanted Jamie, there would be no reason to contact you. He only did that because he wants something, and that something is me. This is a game–"

"Abduction is not a bloody game!"

"It is if you're a psychopath. _Listen_ to me, John. Really listen. This is a game that Jim set into motion–"

"You mean you did with that meeting we had with Wilkes–"

"And he means for me to play it by his rules," Sherlock continued over the sound of John's voice. "I didn't anticipate this – obviously. This isn't Jim's usual tactic, not with me."

"So it's normally just– what? Having each other's smugglers arrested, stealing from each other?"

"John, if we got to the police, we've broken his rules. This isn't about them or you or Jamie, this is about forcing me to do what he wants. I promise you that Jamie is alive and will stay that way if we don't involve the police–"

"But he already has! Did you forget about your name spray painted–"

"I haven't," Sherlock interjected, grimacing slightly. "That's the point. I've been at the focus of too much police enquiry lately – what do you suppose they'll do if I turn up saying my partner's friend has been abducted? Do you think it's likely they'd let me walk out of New Scotland Yard – or at very least, not have me followed? Jim won't be found, John, not if I'm being shadowed. He and I have spent our careers staying several steps removed from their investigations and now it's too close to home – for both of us."

"Well that's just brilliant!" John retorted. "So what do propose we do, Sherlock? Just sit back and wait until Jim gets bored and decides to drop him off at your flat?"

"We won't be idle, John," Sherlock replied, forcing a calmness into his voice and features that belied the disarray in his mind – he had bring that to heel. It would do no one any good if he couldn't think, but John's anxiety was almost palpable, binding to his skin, in his lungs. "And he _will_ contact us."

John stared at him as though the words had been spoken in a foreign language – then his eyes flared, anger sweeping over his features like thunder.

"So we're supposed to just sit and wait?"

"We won't have to wait long," Sherlock said. "He'll be watching – he means for me to play his game, John, to stave off boredom."

"This is _not_ a bloody game!" John yelled. "How many bloody times do I have to say that?"

"It is for him!" Sherlock snapped back. "Jim is a psychopath, John, but one I know! He wants us to do this his way!"

"Do what I say and no one will get hurt?" John snapped, a brittle edge in his voice that was swallowed almost immediately.

"Whatever it takes," Sherlock replied, smothering his own sudden rage. Richard abducting Gabriel had been too far. His name tagged on Scotland Yard had been too far. But this – had he not already had plans in place, he would have seen Jim bleeding and burning and begging for mercy. Sherlock would have stood over him and listened and taken Jim's life with nothing but vicious satisfaction.

The expression on his partner's face – the one he couldn't quite erase – made Sherlock think he might reconsider his original plans.

With more calm then he felt, he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and set it on his knee, trying not to look at John – not to see the hurt, the fear, the accusation.

_Too far, Jim,_ he thought. _You never have known when to quit._

* * *

><p>When the phone rang, startling in the thick silence of the car, it was Jamie's. John's arms and hands tensed as though he meant to reach for it, but he held him still, tendons in his neck jutting as his jaw worked. It was a tenuous control – rigid and military but brittle, and Sherlock could see what was costing to maintain it.<p>

He put the phone on speaker and the thick, oppressive silence in the back of the car was shattered by four small electronic beeps followed by a long dash.

The silence settled back over them.

"What does that mean?" John asked tersely.

"Greenwich pips," Sherlock answered. "The first of five."

"_Five what?_" John demanded, voice bordering on a snarl. He sucked in a deep breath and held it before releasing it carefully and Sherlock saw the shift, saw the fear being swallowed and repressed. He wondered how many times John had consciously done this in Afghanistan – and if he'd ever imagined having to do it here.

He withheld his own impatient reply, smoothing over misplaced frustration.

"Puzzles, I assume," he replied. John stared at him in disbelief, brown eyes blazing.

"Jesus Christ, is it always like this between you two?" he snapped. Sherlock shook his head – it hadn't always been, no. There had been some long peaceful stretches. When they met then, it was almost calm – as close as it got for Jim.

He'd become adept at balancing the madman's moods, had lived a lifetime of walking the thin line that separated him from a prison cell. Jim had been one more factor, albeit a complicated one but still on, to consider.

Sherlock had known that he was pushing Jim further than he ever had.

He'd covered all contingencies. All except one.

The phone buzzed, the small sound almost reproachful in the taut silence. Sherlock unlocked it and frowned at the image in the text program.

"What?" John demanded. Sherlock passed it without comment; John's brows drew together, twin lines of confusion creasing his forehead.

"What's this?" he asked, looking back up, eyes bright, accusing and suspicious. "Some real estate joke? How the hell are we supposed to know this place?"

"I do," Sherlock said with a calm he didn't feel. "It's Henry Walsh's flat."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was one the phone – <em>his<em> phone – features drawn in concentration, eyes intent on the small screen as John stared at him looking for– what? Reassurance? Explanations? Some hint as to how they were going to break into a flat in a high rise in the middle of the day?

They had nothing John could have used – no intelligence reports, no cover, no back up, certainly no authority. Walsh's flat had been searched by the police but wouldn't be under any serious surveillance, since it wasn't a crime scene. Sherlock had assured him that Walsh was still in custody – a flight risk, apparently.

That didn't make John feel any better. Who was he? A former army surgeon turned private doctor.

For one of the most dangerous men in London.

Who had, at the age of fourteen, walked into the National Gallery in broad daylight and walked out carrying several tens of thousands of pounds – and for whom this kind of thing was completely normal.

_It's all a game_, John thought. "A bloody game," he said quietly in the silence punctuated only by the faint tap of Sherlock's fingertips on his phone's screen and the muted sound of traffic outside.

"For Jim," Sherlock said, meeting his gaze, grey eyes bright in the dimness.

"What about for you?" John demanded.

"A carefully executed manoeuvre." He smiled slightly, without humour, and John felt something inside of him harden, go cold. "Not unlike a military operation."

"You planned this," John managed, forcing the words out through numb shock – but there was something in Sherlock's eyes, a bright flare. He reached out almost before he could stop himself, pulling back just before settling a hand on John's shoulder.

John stiffened, drew away slightly, and Sherlock only tightened his hold.

"No," Sherlock said softly. John searched his face for a hint of a lie, uncomfortably aware that Sherlock could convince him if he really wanted to. "Not this, John. Never this."

"Then what?" John growled, shaking his head to dislodge Sherlock's hand, stilling when he saw the hesitation flicker over his partner's features.

"Nothing you have to worry about."

"What?" John demanded. "Yes! Yes, I do, Sherlock, because you're going head-to-head with a bloody psychopath who kidnaps _my_ friend on– what? A bloody whim? Because– why? Why did he do that, Sherlock? Why Jamie? Why does he matter? He doesn't even bloody know anything about you!"

"No, he doesn't," Sherlock agreed. "And we _will_ get him back."

"How?" John snarled. Sherlock was silent for too long a moment, grey eyes evaluating John carefully in the car's dim interior. John resisted the urge to shift under the gaze, meeting it squarely and holding it.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"Do you trust me?"

John opened his mouth then swallowed on the immediate answer, sucking in a deep breath to give himself time to think. He wanted to say no – how could he right now? – but even the thought tasted of a lie. He nodded reluctantly, pursing his lips.

"Then trust me to do this right," Sherlock said.

_And what if you can't?_ John asked silently, repressing a shake of his head. He had no choice – and he didn't want to consider what would happen if Sherlock got it wrong.

"All right," he managed. Sherlock's hand tightened on his shoulder again before releasing him. John followed his partner's gaze out the window as the car slid up next to a high rise tower.

"How exactly are we going to get in there?" John demanded.

"Observation," Sherlock replied.

* * *

><p>If John hadn't seen it, he wouldn't have believed it. He <em>had<em> seen it and he still wasn't sure he believed it. Approaching the building's main entry, Sherlock had been nothing but Sherlock, moving with long purposeful strides bounded by his billowing coat, eyes sharp as he evaluated the list of names beside the buzzer.

"New name. Just moved in."

"They could have just replaced it," John pointed out.

"Nobody does that," Sherlock replied, hitting the buzzer.

And then he wasn't anyone John knew but an embarrassed, genial man, all smiles and cheery tones, explaining to the woman on the other end of the line that he'd locked himself out, biting his lip and looking self-conscious.

When the door buzzed to admit them, the persona vanished and he arched an eyebrow at John, tilting his head to indicate the doctor should follow. It was a moment's stunned shock before John did, the glass door clicking hollowly closed behind him again.

"Oh good, proper locks," Sherlock muttered outside of a flat whose door was indistinguishable from the rest – except that it belonged to a man now securely in police custody. John wondered at the surprised he felt when Sherlock extracted a set of lock picks from an inner pocket of his coat. It was the least of thing things that should faze him about his partner.

A few minutes of narrowed concentration and the locks were thrown, Sherlock swinging the door inward on its silent hinges. He gestured at John to wait and stepped inside, stopping to listen for a long moment before beckoning to the doctor.

The living room was as still and as quiet as it had been in the photograph Jim had sent on Jamie's phone – there were obvious bare spots free of dust where the police had removed things and there was a coffee cup sitting incongruously on an end table next to a chair, as if Henry Walsh had stepped out the moment before they arrived and could come back at any time.

There was something new, though, a pair of black leather shoes sitting in the middle of the living room, aligned on the carpet so that the polished toes pointed toward the door. Sherlock held out a hand, fingers curling momentarily around John's arm, wordlessly telling him to stay where he was.

"It's Jim, remember," John said as his partner stepped toward the shoes. Sherlock nodded, circling the shoes, not raising his eyes from their target. He was still for a moment before he lowered himself carefully to the floor, gloved fingers spread to take his weight, grey eyes narrowed in concentration, lips pressed together. John was mirroring the held breath, seeing all the possible traps, his mind running through the possibilities for cover around him, knowing it wouldn't matter if it were a trap because he was too close and–

In the tense silence, the sound like a shot of adrenaline directly to the heart, Jamie's phone rang.


	75. Chapter 75

All still and silent, the air stale, trapped behind closed windows and doors. There were no currents, no scents except dust and warmth – someone had left the heat on despite the fact that the place was empty. The police had come and gone but stamped their presence everywhere. Doors left open, items moved and not replaced, already indications – from the dust and clustering of objects still present – of things that had been removed altogether.

In the entryway: a closet door half slid open, two jackets hung neatly above several pairs of shoes, expensive, polished, gathering dust. A small table missing a set of keys, piled with post delivered before Walsh's arrest. A small framed painting above the table, crooked.

There was no one else there. Some aeons old instinct kicked in – or failed to kick in – because there was no warning prickle in his skin, no hairs on the back of his neck standing up, no feeling of being watched by anyone other than John.

Sherlock reached back and beckoned as he stepped forward, hearing the doctor move across the threshold and shut the door behind him, sealing them into the silence.

Everything was almost exactly as it had been in the photograph Jim had sent and the background of the images in the news – right down to the bottle of wine Gabriel had planted as a clue to Jim.

_Clever, that_, Sherlock thought, feeling a fleeting moment of pride that left him focussed on the one incongruity: a pair of black leather shoes resting innocently in the centre of the room. He felt a surge of anger – it had been at least twenty-four hours since someone had been in here, which meant Jim had done this before taking Jamie.

The sheer _arrogance_.

_Oh, he'll learn_, Sherlock thought, pressing his fingers lightly on John's arm to have him stay where he was before circling the room slowly, looking for other prints, other subtle indications as to who had been there before him – but they'd been erased as thoroughly as if they'd never existed.

Which could only mean Sebastian Moran had been here.

He let his eyes flicker up, roaming the walls and ceiling and the right angles where they met but there were no marks there, either – of course, with Moran, there wouldn't be. If Jim was watching from his place above all of this, there was nothing he could do.

"It's Jim, remember," John said as Sherlock stepped toward the shoes. He nodded, not raising his eyes, feeling his body's response to the situation as if the shoes were a threat – they might be. In the silence, every movement he made, every little shift in John's stance seemed accentuated, too harsh, too loud. He held himself still for a moment before lowering himself carefully to the floor, eyes flickering over the shoes – black, leather, fine stitching, probably handmade, size forty-four, polished to gleaming, faint creasing meant they weren't new but something about the style, it was odd–

The sound of Jamie's phone ringing nearly made him tip over, pressing his weight into his fingers to keep his balance, eyes falling shut for a moment when he realized what the sound was. John murmured "Christ" under his breath and Sherlock sat back on his heels, pulling the stolen mobile from his coat pocket.

Blocked number, same as the text that had led them here.

"Hello?" he answered, leaving it on speaker.

"H-hello, sexy."

Breathing on the other end of the line – female harsh, uneven, control threatening to break. Catching on the words, a choked back sob.

He listened past the words, the point was obvious – the hostage would die if he didn't solve the puzzle surrounding the shoes.

Hard to hear the background past her ragged breathing but any sounds were muted. She was inside somewhere but he heard something low underneath her words, almost familiar. The drift of voices that were almost immediately gone again – she was somewhere with people, but somewhere inside. An office building? Shopping centre? Couldn't be – someone would notice and derail the game.

Somewhere alone, where she could see others, but they wouldn't pay attention to her.

For ten hours. Ten hours to solve this puzzle or she would die.

_Five pips_, he thought. _She's the first._

But which one was Jamie?

* * *

><p>The silence rushed back in when the line went dead as if to reclaim the flat as its own, flowing into the space between himself and Sherlock where the shoes lay like an accusation. Sherlock's gaze was level, calm, but there was a trace of something behind his eyes, something John couldn't quite place. Anger? Confusion?<p>

"A puzzle?" John demanded, breaking the silence again. "What does he mean, a puzzle?"

"The shoes," Sherlock replied, pocketing the phone and crouching down again, eyes flickering over the gleaming black leather.

"How are a pair of Henry Walsh's shoes a puzzle?"

"These aren't his shoes."

"They're in his flat!"

"Yes," Sherlock answered slowly, shifting to change his angle, gloved fingers splayed on the carpet for support. "But these aren't his."

"How do you know that?"

"There's a small rack in the closet by the door. He has several pairs of black shoes with the same high quality of leather, but only one pair is missing. That would be the pair he has with him now."

"So he's giving us ten hours to do what? Figure out whose shoes these are? They could belong to anyone, Sherlock."

"It has to be important," Sherlock replied. "He wouldn't give me a puzzle I couldn't solve. There's no game in that."

"What if he wants you to fail?"

"He doesn't," Sherlock said. The words were murmured as if his half of the conversation was being run on autopilot, freeing up his mind to study the shoes, to piece together their meaning.

"So what then?" John demanded.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, picking the shoes up carefully, warily, movements cautious, almost too slow.

John let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding Sherlock turned the shoes over and nothing happened. Sherlock's gaze skittered across the carpet, over the tracks he'd made, the prints that ended where John stood before he frowned and moved his gaze back along the same path.

He bit the end of a gloved finger to free his hand and ran his palm over the carpet, frown deepening, eyes narrowing.

"What is it?" John asked.

"The carpet's dry," Sherlock said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as proof.

"Yeah?" John said. "And?"

Sherlock showed him the darkened soles, meeting his gaze again.

"Why are the soles wet?"

* * *

><p>Gabriel read each text as they came in, jotting down the basics of the situation, his frown growing as more information reached him. He would have preferred a direct conversation with his boss, but this was quicker, simple, and less prone to being overheard by the wrong ears.<p>

The final text read simply:

_Go._

Every one of Sherlock's top people had been waiting for the message since they'd left London. Gabriel had anticipated the orders would come through him rather than straight from Sherlock – more shocking was the means Jim had devised as an attempted distraction.

He didn't know it was a distraction; for him it was a game into which he'd cornered Sherlock, forcing his hand. Gabriel wasn't so naïve to think Jim wouldn't have other schemes going on behind the scenes, in the dark, subtle corners of his empire where they might go unnoticed – or maybe even in the forefront, which could be an unexpected direction.

He contacted Cheryl first to let her know, got an affirmative reply. She would be the most ready of all of them, he thought. He cut off communication with her, reluctant to do so in some small part of himself that he acknowledged only in passing – that sort of hesitation could cost lives and if it did, it would most likely be hers. She knew what she was doing as well as any of them. In some ways, better.

Charles and Irene were next. Aside from himself, they were the two most at risk of some direct retaliation. When that was finished, he alerted the rest of Sherlock's lieutenants, some one at a time, others in random groups that had nothing to do with location or time zone so as to show less of a pattern. The ones roused from their beds showed no signs of fatigue, the ones taken from other projects switched their focus without problem or complaint.

When it was done, he called Michael in, explained the situation. His secretary nodded, left to do his job. Gabriel took a moment to collect his thoughts – Sandra and her family had been seen to and she was working right now, so he didn't need to explain this, not immediately.

His days were going to be much longer than John Watson would have wanted, but the doctor wasn't in a position to find out, let alone a condition to protest. Gabriel checked his supply of painkillers. He was going to need them long before this was done. It had been over two months since he'd slept anything less than a full night – and he suspected there was more than one sleepless night in his immediate future. He could kip on the sofa in his office when he needed to, but not for very long.

With the lieutenants despatched, he turned to those on the streets, be they the police officers also on their payroll, the middle-ranking and petty thieves, or Sherlock's homeless network. He suspected he'd be doing more, but not just yet.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was perched in a chair, eyes intent on the shoes resting on the coffee table. <em>Perched<em> was a good word, John thought – his partner was balanced on the balls of his feet, knees almost tucked right up against his chest, palms pressed together so that his index fingers just touched his lips.

How he could maintain the position, John didn't know, but he'd been sitting like that, utterly still and silent, for almost fifteen minutes. After the first few moments, the doctor had cleared his throat pointedly – but he couldn't even be sure whether the flicker in Sherlock's grey eyes had been in acknowledgement of him or of some unspoken internal comment.

There was a particular gleam in his eyes, a hint of something in his expression that John didn't like.

_He's enjoying this_, he thought. He couldn't bring himself to believe that Sherlock was pleased that Jamie had been taken and yet the feeling wouldn't dissipate. There was something Sherlock found fascinating about this.

Was it puzzle, a game? Something to _do_?

_He's a genius_, John reminded himself. _And he's up against another genius._ Sherlock's entire career had been built on this kind of challenge. It shouldn't be so surprising that this appealed to him on some level.

He might not have minded so much if it hadn't been his best friend's life on the line.

John drew a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly. In the back of his mind, he could hear the seconds ticking away – they'd already spent an hour of the ten getting back to Sherlock's office and with him lost in silent thought.

"Tell me about them," his partner said so abruptly that John started.

"What, the shoes?"

"Yes, John, the shoes."

"They're just shoes."

"No!" Sherlock snapped. "They're _not_ just shoes. _Just shoes_ doesn't describe them. Tell me what you notice about them!"

"Why?" John demanded. "You've probably already seen it."

Sherlock shook his head, a look of sharp impatience crossing his features, making him look his age even if only briefly.

"An outside eye, a second opinion – it's very useful to me. _Really._"

John sighed, shooting Sherlock a scowl that was met with equanimity, and shook his head in resignation.

"Fine," he agreed tersely. "They belong to a man – obviously. Black leather. They–" He reached out, hesitated, then picked up one of the shoes at Sherlock's nod, "They've been polished, so they're not brand new but someone's been taking care of them. He'd probably be taller than me because they're bigger than my shoes."

Sherlock nodded again and John drew a deep breath.

"They look expensive, so maybe someone who cared about his appearance? Someone with a good job?"

"That's it?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, that's it!" John snapped. "What else is there?"

Sherlock plucked the shoe from John's hand, turning it over, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Fine stitching, exquisite attention to detail – handmade. Not only do they look expensive, they _are_ expensive. Made in Italy, given the Italian leather and the use of European sizing stamped on the tongue. You're right about the polish – these aren't new. Their owner took good care of them, though – he was obviously fond of them. At the price he must have paid, he had good reason to be. But the sole on the right foot is slight more worn on the outside edge than the left foot… he had a tendency to put too much weight on the edge of his right foot. Could be from an old injury but probably just a bad habit because the difference isn't that noticeable, nor have the insoles been replaced with custom orthotic inserts."

"They could have been taken out then put back in."

"No," Sherlock disagreed. "They're just as worn as the rest of the shoe, so these are the insoles he used. Whatever reason he had for the weight discrepancy, it wasn't medical – or at least not seriously medical. The laces are just starting to wear, so he'd either replaced them or was careful about how tightly he tied them – given the obvious care to the shoes, probably the latter. The style is… odd, though."

"Odd how?"

"Not sure," Sherlock murmured. "There's something about it… And there's the water that was on the soles. Look here, and here. Small water stains that haven't been polished over or treated. Shoes this expensive – and this well maintained – he wouldn't neglect that. And he'd do his best to make sure this didn't happen in the first place. So what does that mean? When did it happen? Why did it happen?"

John shook his head helplessly but Sherlock wasn't paying him any attention, gaze focused on the shoes, lips pursed, expression intense.

"I need a lab," he said suddenly, looking up, meeting John's eyes

"What?" the doctor asked, thrown off balance.

"A lab. I haven't got one. Not immediately at hand – I don't normally do this anymore but I don't have time to waste waiting for someone else to work. Get your coat."

"What?" John demanded again. "Where are we going now?"

Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair and swept up the shoes in one easy, graceful movement.

"Bart's," he replied.

* * *

><p>There was a startled morgue tech watching them as Sherlock breezed in, John hurrying to keep up. She glanced between them, eyes settling on Sherlock as she stepped toward a phone.<p>

"No need for that, I assure you," Sherlock said, all smiles as he had been at Walsh's building, only a different tone, more genial and assured – what John would have called sincere if he didn't think it was completely faked.

"Who are you?" the woman demanded, eyes flickering to John again then back. "How did you get in here? I could call security–"

"Sherlock Holmes. Ah, good, I see the name _does_ mean something to you. Excellent. This is Doctor John Watson. John, Molly Hooper."

"But–" the woman said. "You're–"

"Someone came to see you, I imagine?"

Molly nodded mechanically and Sherlock smiled encouragingly.

"Yes, a woman named Simone–"

"Oh, Simone, good," Sherlock interrupted her. "I hope she treated you well? Explained the situation? Have you been bothered by any of Mister Moriarty's people since?"

"Yes– I mean no– I mean, yes she did and no I haven't. But how did you–"

"Good, good," Sherlock continued. "I personally give you my word that neither I nor anyone who works for me will ever treat you that way. I value my people, Ms. Hooper, just as I value their assistance. Which I sorely need from you right now."

"Have you killed someone?" Molly asked and John stared. Even Sherlock started slightly then flashed a brief, brilliant grin.

"No," he replied and John suspected Molly was even more startled by this admission than she would have been had he said yes. "I need access to some specialized equipment."

"We do autopsies–"

"Yes, and toxicology and analyses of chemical compounds and blood, et cetera."

"You need blood analyzed?"

"No," Sherlock said, holding up the shoes and giving her another bright smile. "I need these analyzed."


	76. Chapter 76

Sherlock was bent over a microscope, so focused on his work that John thought he might as well not even be there. Molly Hooper had returned to hover nervously – whether her anxiety had to do with who Sherlock was or the fact that there were unauthorized personnel in the morgue, he couldn't say.

_Probably both_, he thought vaguely, watching Sherlock's gloved hands smooth the laces of one shoe so the bit under the lens was stretched taut.

"What are you looking for, exactly?" Molly asked. John glanced at her but she was watching Sherlock, twisting her fingers nervously, biting her lower lip. He didn't blame her for being so apprehensive – he could feel the same tight coil in his stomach, pressing up against his lungs, but for very different reasons.

The ticking of the clock on the wall was making his skin crawl. Each second that was struck off was another second lost and somewhere, a desperate woman was being held at Jim Moriarty's whim.

As was Jamie.

"Everything. Anything. Mud would be useful."

"Mud?" John and Molly asked in unison. Sherlock's gaze flickered up, grey eyes darting over both of them before refocusing on the microscope.

"The chemical composition would give me some idea where these came from – or rather, where their owner came from."

"They're spotless," John pointed out.

"No, they're not," Sherlock returned. "You saw the small water stains and the wet soles. That means something."

"What?" John demanded.

"I don't know," Sherlock murmured. He was silent for another moment, then sat back with a sharp sigh, peeling off the gloves and tossing them on the table with an abrupt, frustrated motion. "I've gone over every millimetre of these shoes, run every test I can think of – nothing! Blast, what's he playing at?"

"He?" Molly asked, glancing between them for an explanation – or reassurance. Sherlock responded with a shake of his head.

"Could you excuse us please, Ms. Hooper? I'm sure you have more important work to do. The dead can wait but only for so long."

Molly hesitated again then gave a curt uncertain nod before hurrying off with a final, bewildered glance over her shoulder. Sherlock waited until her footsteps had receded down the corridor before leaning forward, elbows on the table, face momentarily buried in his hands.

"What does he _mean_?" he muttered and John shook his head.

"What did you mean about the mud?" he asked.

"It can be used in forensics to help pin down a specific location. Different muds have different chemical compositions so if there had been any on these shoes, I might have had some clue as to where to begin."

"But how do you know that?"

"I sell real estate John. I actually _do_ that, you know. There's quite a lot that goes into being successful at it, particularly given how much my clients pay for their properties."

John sighed, arms folded.

"Fine," he conceded. "So you have a pair of shoes. Not yours, not Henry Walsh's. Not mine either because they're too big and I'd definitely recognize them if they were – not that I ever could have afforded a pair like that. How tall would he be, do you think?"

"About six feet," Sherlock replied.

"Gabriel? Or Charles?" He swallowed on the displeasure of the latter suggestion – it bothered him more than he was willing to admit to question whether Jim was sending Sherlock a pair of his former lover's shoes.

"No, these don't belong to either of them." There was nothing but certainty in his voice and John took a deep breath – of course Sherlock would know that. If he could tell at a glance they weren't Walsh's, he'd have figured out if they belonged to someone he knew well.

"So what? Jim's maybe?"

"Why would he send me a pair of his own shoes?" Sherlock asked, but the question was murmured, not really directed at John. He picked up one of the shoes again, turning it carefully in his hands, grey eyes narrowed in concentration.

"I don't think so," he sighed after a moment's study. "It's too obvious."

John resisted the urge to snarl – this was getting them nowhere and two lives were slowly running out as they wasted their time.

"There are probably thousands of men who could have owned those!" he snapped.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "But only one who matters to us. It's a puzzle, John, which he means for me to solve." In an abrupt movement, he picked up the other shoe and stood, the chair clattering gently on the hard tile before stilling.

"What now?" John asked, unfolding his arms.

"I can't do any more here," Sherlock replied. "And I need to concentrate. Let's go."

* * *

><p>It hadn't come as a shock to Irene that most of Sherlock's business wasn't conducted in seedy warehouses or abandoned parking garages – one look at the man the first time she'd strode into his office had told her that. Much like the other side of her business, it took place in posh rooms behind closed – and very thick – doors.<p>

Heels ringing on the marble foyer floor, Irene was glad of that luxury. This was enough of a risk as it was; she'd argued as much with Sherlock but he'd held firm. He'd given her three names – she'd added a fourth for appearances' sake and for her own sanity. Not all of them could be approached in broad daylight like this first meeting, but if they happened to speak to each other…

It was chancy – and Sherlock knew it.

She wasn't nervous but she wasn't a fool, either. She was unarmed – there was nowhere in her fitted dress suit to hide a weapon larger than a small knife and the men she was going to see would spot even that. The day she couldn't use her wits as her weapon was the day she'd have to step out of the game.

She had two days at most, but she'd planned for that. If things went smoothly – and Irene had no intention that they shouldn't – she would have plenty of time to prepare for her fourth and final meeting. She would need it when this was all said and done.

_After all_, she mused as the lift doors opened silently for her, _there's no reason not to have _some_ fun._

* * *

><p>It had never been so hard to think.<p>

Even the worst days when his mind was racing, _burning_ so hot it threatened to consume itself were nothing like this. Learning to shut it off had taken years of deliberate effort and even now there were days when it didn't work, leaving him claustrophobic in his own skull, unable to dissipate the manic energy.

But he'd never had to learn to turn his mind _on._

It was frustratingly distracting in and of itself. Sherlock wanted to explore that realization. It kept tugging at him, trying to pull him down its path and it was tempting – so tempting – because it was about John and the subject was endlessly fascinating but right now, he couldn't let himself be swayed.

He'd never had to work for concentration before, not like this. At his most distracted he knew he was still more focussed than most people on their best days and he'd always been able to distance himself from the source of his diversions even if they were immediately at hand.

But he could almost feel John's presence in the car, a gaze watching him so intently that it seemed to Sherlock that he could see the doctor despite having his eyes closed. A pale image of John pursued his mind's every step so that the palace around him wavered where it had always been solid before.

He growled to himself and refocused hard.

Italy. Associations: Sibyl. Property. Too recent. Villas, vineyards. Food, wine. Wine – Gabriel had left a bottle in Walsh's flat, the same kind Sherlock had shared with Jim in their club on the Strand. German wine.

Germany. Associations: third language. An un-chaperoned holiday taken as an adolescent. Irrelevant. Back to Italy.

Associations: shape. Footwear. Shoes. Leather. High quality, leather, hand made. Price. Too vague. Too many people he knew who wore the same level of quality. _Be specific_. Water, worn soles. Worn soles, walking. Shoes worn for walking – professional wear but worn often. Walked in. Indoors, outdoors.

Outdoors. Association: weather. Water on the soles. Rain? Water spots on the leather not cared for even though the shoes were. Why? It made no sense.

Rain. Association: London. He swallowed a dry laugh and was distracted again when John shifted, gaze intensifying. Sherlock wanted to open his eyes, to tell John to let him work, but if he did the distraction would be worse. He could feel the leather of the seat underneath his hand, knew precisely how far John was from him, how much it would take to reach out and close the distance.

Rain. Outdoors. Italy. Shoes. Something about the style–

He could almost taste it, the connection hovering just outside his grasp. Sherlock reached out, nearly touching it, but it was gone.

* * *

><p>John fought down a startled movement when Sherlock growled suddenly, grey eyes snapping open, blazing in the car's dim interior.<p>

He had no idea how long they'd been driving or precisely where they were but he could feel the seconds chipping at his patience as they slipped by, draining down the funnel of the ten hours Jim had given them, less than half of which were left. Sherlock had been sitting still for longer than John could count, unmoving except his eyes flickering rapidly beneath closed eyelids, almost as if he were dreaming.

"What?" he demanded.

"I've almost got it!" Sherlock snapped. "It's got nothing to do with my people there but there's something I'm missing! Why were the shoes wet, John? Why would a man who cared for them so much let that happen?"

"Maybe it was Jim."

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"You said it was a puzzle," John spat, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. "Maybe he took those shoes from their owner and wet them for a reason. Maybe it's not _those_ shoes that–"

He stopped abruptly, staring at Sherlock, who had gone still.

"What is it?" he demanded.

* * *

><p>Sherlock held up one hand, forestalling John's protest, and closed his eyes.<p>

When he opened them again, it was not his car – sunlight instead of dim light, blue sky instead of low grey clouds, warm spring air instead of the damp coolness of late winter. John was gone – in his place, a horde of people, t-shirts and shorts, bared legs and arms, moving singly or in small groups, parting around him like water flowing around a rock.

Around him, the current of voices, rising and falling, smooth, somewhat unfamiliar tones. Italian.

Sherlock turned carefully, watching a pony-tailed woman run by him without seeing him. In his suit, he should have stood out amidst the runners, but he wasn't there, not to them.

And he wasn't alone.

Charles was standing beside him, hands in his trouser pockets, a small smile playing on his lips. He was in a suit as well, perfectly matched colours, perfectly pressed, smart and comfortable among the flushed runners.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked. His French lieutenant shrugged lightly, the smile growing before he looked away. When he turned back, he was a young man, a decade fallen from his features, the smile wider, more insolent, less subtle.

Sherlock turned his back deliberately, eyes sweeping over the crowds.

No John. No Irene. He scanned more carefully – no Gabriel. But there was Cheryl, the years taken from her as well, sitting on a bench, absently filing her nails and paying him no attention.

Sherlock looked back at a young Charles, who was watching him with shrewd amusement.

_Timing_, he thought.

"I knew you and Cheryl, but not Gabriel," he said and Charles nodded once, arching a dark brow. "Early then. And Italy, a race– Nicolò Serra."

"_Bien fait_," Charles said, and Sherlock opened his eyes.


	77. Chapter 77

"Who?" John demanded.

Sherlock ignored him, sitting forward to snap the window open that separated them from the driver.

"Gerald, the office," he ordered before isolating them again.

"Nicolò Serra," he said again as he turned back to John, grey eyes gleaming triumphantly in the low light. He pulled out his phone, suddenly intent on the small screen.

"Are you going to tell me who the bloody hell that is?" John snapped and Sherlock looked up, surprise flitting across his features as though explaining shouldn't be necessary. John swallowed on an angry retort and held his partner's gaze, eyes narrowed.

"My first major international investment," Sherlock replied. "Real estate, I mean. It came to my attention that there was some very well-placed land coming up for sale in Italy. The competition was fierce and the sale was kept very quiet, but I knew someone who knew Serra, who was interested in facilitating the purchase for the right fee."

"What was so special about this place?"

"The land was adjacent to two old and well established vineyards but had been retained by its owners until a death in the family prompted the children to consider offers – money over sentimentality it seems. Both vineyards bid heavily but by that time, I had enough resources to out do them."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes – of course Sherlock had. He didn't have to limit himself to making money within the boundaries of the law. He wondered briefly how it had been paid for – but he didn't really want to know.

"I _knew_ there was something strange about the style of the shoes," Sherlock murmured.

"What do you mean?"

"My first significant international deal, John. It was awhile ago – I was still in university. Twenty-one."

"So?"

"Shortly before I met Jim."

John started slightly, then shook his head.

"What's that got to do with the style of the shoes?"

"These were Serra's shoes," Sherlock said. "They're old. That's why they seem somewhat odd to me – the style is out of date but I couldn't place it because I didn't have the context. Ninety-nine or two thousand, thereabouts. These _were_ his shoes because they're precisely the kind he would have worn."

"Would have?" John asked and something shone in Sherlock's eyes – admiration and surprise, he thought.

"He died not long after the sale was finalized, of a heart attack while running a marathon. I was suspicious – I'm sure a lot of people were – but the autopsy and toxicology reports ruled the same thing. No drugs, no poisons, nothing suspicious and it's certainly not unheard of for healthy runners to suffer cardiac arrest."

"So what? This Serra dies, Jim steals his shoes and sends them to you a decade later for– what exactly? Something to do with the land?"

"I'm not sure," Sherlock murmured in reply and John swallowed a frustrated sound, flexing his hands into fists on his thighs. His partner's eyes flickered to the motion then back to his face.

"And why were the shoes wet?"

"I don't know that, either," Sherlock said. "But there may be something in the witness statements… if it was raining that day… Oh good." The last was spoken with a brief glance out the window and John realized they'd arrived at Sherlock's building. They were admitted from the car and made their way to Sherlock's building, the younger man lost in thought again, moving through the corridors without breaking his inward focus while other occupants side stepped him with what looked like habit.

"Sit," Sherlock ordered when they entered the office and John bristled but did as he was told. His partner slipped behind his desk, all of his intense scrutiny focused on his computer monitor, eyes flickering over information John couldn't see, each click of the mouse reinforcing the time that they were losing.

He wanted to demand that Sherlock hurry, that he find what he was looking for, that he puzzle out how Nicolò Serra with his heart attack brought on by a marathon fit into a stolen pair of his shoes and a woman trapped somewhere waiting to die.

"Sherlock," John growled.

"Yes," Sherlock replied without looking up. "Give me time, John."

"We haven't got time!"

Sherlock's nostrils flared slightly and he met John's gaze. Instead of the cool dismissal the doctor was expecting, Sherlock's eyes were bright, blazing.

"Give me _time_, John," he repeated. John glared at him for a moment before giving a curt nod, muscles in his jaw working against the frustration. Sherlock's eyes stayed locked with his another second before switching back to the monitor, moving left to right so quickly John wondered if he was even absorbing anything, but a sudden exclamation of triumph caught him off guard, and Sherlock was pushing himself to his feet and unlocking his phone at the same time.

John could hear the distant ringing on the other end of the line as Sherlock circled the desk toward him. There was an even fainter click but Sherlock spoke before the person answering could.

"It wasn't a heart attack, it was poison. There was one witness report that was crucial – he'd just stopped at a booth for some water. The attendant who gave it to him said he looked fine when she'd seen him. There was something in the water, wasn't there? It wasn't the race that stopped his heart."

"Oh, _very good_, Sherlock," Jim's voice purred from the phone and John felt his hands curl into fists again as he rose. He wanted to reach out, right through the phone, and wrap his fingers around Jim Moriarty's neck, watch the life go out of those mad eyes.

"She never knew of course, but the medical examiner did," Jim continued. "Cost me a pretty penny as they say – but nowhere _near_ as much as I would have made on that sale you stole from me."

"How?" Sherlock demanded. "How did I steal it from you? Your name never once came up."

"Well, no, it doesn't though, does it? Just like yours. _Shhhh…_ But I had a client, you know. He was _very_ upset about the whole affair – and of course _I_ didn't get paid. Put a bit of a crimp in my _plans_, didn't you? But you had no idea!"

"No," Sherlock agreed, meeting John's gaze. "But you had Serra killed. Why him? Why not me?"

Jim laughed, a bright, brittle sound that made John's fists itch even more.

"Because he was _boring_, Sherlock! And you – you never are, not really, are you? See that you stay that way, my dear."

The line went dead and John saw the curse vanish unspoken on Sherlock's lips, the faint twitch in his fingers, little more than a slight drag of his thumb across the small screen, when Jamie's phone rang.

Sherlock exchanged his phone for the mechanic's, watching John carefully.

"W-well done," the woman's shuddering voice said in the small space that separated the two men. "C-come and get me."

John let out a slow breath, closing his eyes as a ripple of relief coursed down his spine.

"Where are you?" Sherlock demanded. "Tell us where you are."

* * *

><p>"Oh, he <em>is<em> a clever one, isn't he?"

Jamie jerked awake, shoulders burning as he yanked his head up. His arms and legs had long ago gone numb but the ache across his shoulders from being bound had deepened to a sharper pain whenever he moved.

He had no idea how long he'd been asleep but the drugs seemed to have worn off. The room was still dark but the blackness was no longer absolute, punctured here and there by stray beams of weak light coming through small cracks and holes.

He could just make out Jim's outline, the gleam of his eyes and teeth as he grinned. There was someone else there, deftly undoing the knots around his ankles despite the darkness. If his legs weren't so numb, all it would take was one well-placed kick–

"Oh, I wouldn't," Jim said and Jamie swallowed a startled reaction. "Well, you could, and then you might able to overpower me. I'm unarmed, you know. Just me, hands in my pockets, completely unprepared for _anything_ – except how far would you get before one of the others got you? If you could even stand at all?"

Jamie repressed a silent growl – Jim was right. He could probably down the man in front of him, but it would leave him with his arms still bound in an unfamiliar place where he couldn't see well and surrounded by an unknown number of opponents.

"Good," Jim purred as Jamie relaxed. He focused on his breathing, trying to ignore the pressing desire to wrap his hands around Jim's throat and squeeze until he felt the bone and cartilage giving way under his fingers, until that irritating gleam faded to nothing.

When the pain of returning circulation blazed down his freed legs, he tried to keep the sharp inhalation to himself, not quite succeeding.

"Oh, yes, I am sorry about that," Jim said. "Precautions, you know. A man with your military training? Sebastian assures me it's necessary."

He had no idea who Sebastian was but the blasted man was right. Left to his own devices, Jamie could have worked himself free. Against the drugs, the knots, and the uselessness of his limbs, he was at a much greater disadvantage.

Still, they were untying him now. He could watch for an opportunity, take it if it came.

"Again, no," Jim said and Jamie's nostrils flared – how the bloody hell did he do that? "You see, there's nothing in your training that prepared you for _me_. Oh, you can run through a dozen different scenarios but it won't matter – you can't outthink me. Make it easier on yourself and don't try. I hate to see people struggling so uselessly."

Jamie huffed then winced as his wrists were freed and the burning in his shoulders flowed down his arms. He brought them around, swallowing on a hiss, trying to rub his numb hands together but his fingers were clumsy and it only aggravated the pain.

There was something pressed against his lips; it took half a moment to realize it was a water bottle. Jamie closed his eyes and drank, not caring about the possibility that it might be drugged. He needed the hydration more – and if they wanted to drug him, there were other ways. He wasn't in much of a position to fight.

"What would you ask if you could?" Jim enquired, shoes clicking faintly on the floor as he moved. The other man hadn't made so much as a faint noise; he was impossible to see in the darkness and the only impressions Jamie had were of height and certainty in his movements.

"_Why?_" Jim drawled, a low chuckle reverberating around them. "So typical, isn't it? Why are you doing this, Jim? Why is this happening? Why me?"

He was in front of Jamie again, eyes gleaming.

"_Bo-ring!_" he sang. "It's notabout _you_! No one cares about you! Well, _someone_ does, but that's rather the point, isn't it? Such a nice little distraction, our little doctor. Who knew that was all it would take? What's so special about him? Nothing! He's so_ normal_ – and who knew normal could be – So. Much. Fun."

He strolled away again; Jamie watched the flex and bend of shadows as Jim moved – he spun back, arms outstretched, the movement defined as the shift in the darkness.

"It isn't really about the money," Jim said, apparently apropos of nothing as the empty water bottle was taken away. "It's just a way of keeping score – of course, it's a very _good_ way of keeping score and you can't win the game if you don't have the highest score. Isn't that right, James?"

Jamie stayed still, not least because of the way his muscles threatened agony at the slightest movement.

"It's been _such _a long time since I had a decent game at all," Jim sighed. In the darkness, he paused, so still he was like a statue, then rubbed his hands together, voice all glee when he spoke again. "Best hope he keeps playing it_ so _well! Get him up."

He had no time to register the words before he was being hauled up on unresponsive legs, staggering and nearly falling, a strong arm wrapped around his chest the only thing between himself and the floor. There was a soft sound, a sudden plunge in the darkness, and Jamie inhaled the faint dusty fibres of the sack covering his face.

* * *

><p>"They've got her."<p>

Gabriel's voice echoed slightly through the phone's speaker; his office was so close it was hardly worth the call but John was glad there was no one else there with them. Sherlock's presence was almost too much – John hated the tight feeling in his lungs that came from knowing how dependent he was on the younger man to solve this. He hated being forced to rely on someone that way, hated having no other choice.

They were at Jim's mercy, and John was pretty sure the madman didn't have any.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked from behind his desk, eyes flickering up to meet John's. His expression was smooth, all business, but the light in his eyes was shadowed, shuttered.

"Two men carjacked her in Cornwall this morning. Strapped her into a Semtex vest and left her with the a phone to read out Jim's instructions. Poe's got the explosives disarmed and says she's not injured."

"See to the details," Sherlock replied and John scowled. There would be a lot of details to clear up – probably most importantly being that a woman held hostage and fitted with explosives might want to report the event to the police.

"I will," Gabriel replied and rung off. The momentarily silence seemed stifling to John; Sherlock was standing so still he seemed unaware of the doctor's presence until he inhaled deeply, nodded to himself, and met John's eyes again.

"Well?" the doctor snapped. "They've got her, but what the hell do we do now?"

"We wait."

"Wait for what?" John demanded.

"The next pip."


	78. Chapter 78

"What is it?" John demanded.

"A police car." But there was a suggestion of uncertainty in his voice and when John glanced at the image of a dull silver station wagon with its bright, hatched emergency patterns, he shook his head.

"Royal Military Police vehicle," he corrected. "Looks abandoned."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"You think it's a trap?" John asked, raising his eyes quickly to meet Sherlock's. His partner gave a minute shake of his head.

"I think it's not as obvious as it appears. Let's go."

"We don't know where we're going!" John protested.

"I have a fairly good idea already," Sherlock replied. "I'll narrow it down en route."

It was astonishing to watch Sherlock pinpoint the vehicle's location based on the appearance and angles of the background buildings in the photograph. To John, they looked like nothing but vague, somewhat blurry images that could have been almost anywhere in the city, but the picture they painted to Sherlock was as clear as if the photograph had come with directions.

"Do you have a map of the whole city in your head?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What– the whole of London?"

"And Paris, Edinburgh, and Dublin," Sherlock murmured in reply. "Although those may be in need of updates."

"Amazing," John said, trying to shake away the awe; this was neither the time nor place for it.

"Useful," Sherlock corrected, glancing away as the car turned a corner, giving a quiet huff of approval.

The sound of Jamie's phone snapped the momentary sense of admiration, tightening a coil of tension in John's stomach that pulled him back to the reality of the situation. He kept his eyes on it, breath caught in his lungs, as Sherlock answered.

"Hello?"

A quavering voice on the other end of the line. Male, John thought, and young by the sounds of it. His words were almost swallowed by a sudden noise, a deep rumbling that faded almost immediately – but there was more in the background, some steady hum that rose and fell inconsistently in pitch.

"Where are you? What's that noise?" Sherlock asked, voice calm and measured despite the tightening of small muscles around the edges of his mouth, his eyes.

"It's the sound of life– Sherlock. But don't– worry, I can soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in eight hours. This– time you have seven."

The line went dead.

A gloved hand forestalled John's words. There was an ache in his jaw from swallowing so many protests, an irrational irritation that Sherlock could approach this so levelly even though his own training and experience had drilled that into him. But in the midst of gunfire or surgery, he'd known his place, known his instructions, known his enemy.

Not here. He was dependent on Sherlock, who was dancing to Jim's tune. It felt like walking a tightrope blindfolded and in the dark – only a misstep meant at least two deaths on his conscience, neither of them his own.

Sherlock's gaze flickered out the window as their car slowed and John followed the tilt of an index finger to see the abandoned car already surrounded by nearly identical compatriots, roped off with bright yellow police tape behind which a team of military personnel were working busily. The access was guarded by two uniformed men – corporals, John thought – both of whom were approaching Sherlock's car with a definite air of suspicion, weapons almost but not quite raised.

"We'll never get past them!" John hissed.

"Do you have your military ID?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, but it won't do for you–"

"Trust me," Sherlock interjected before he opened his door and stepped out smoothly, unfolding his long frame into the overcast light. John hurried out as well, rounding the car to see a hand being held up to him, a warning look on the face behind it.

"Sorry, sirs, no admittance."

"Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," Sherlock said, nodding to John, who pulled his wallet from coat pocket to flash his identification. The corporal immediately adjusted his stance to a salute, which John returned sharply.

"I think you'll find this sufficient for admittance," Sherlock continued, slipping a small card from his own wallet and passing it to the second corporal. The young man narrowed his eyes at it before casting a glance back up at Sherlock.

"Wait here please, sir," he said, to which Sherlock replied with a brief nod. John stepped them out of earshot of the remaining guard before muttering:

"You've got a Redcap ID. How?"

"It's not specific to the Military Police," Sherlock said quietly. "It's my brother's. Access to all areas. I acquired it ages ago. It's been extraordinarily useful."

"They're bound to notice that you don't look much like Mycroft!" John hissed.

"I did take the precaution of changing the image associated with this particular card to my own picture."

"Brilliant," John sighed. "We'll get caught."

"No we won't – at least, not just yet."

"They'll figure us out in five minutes. If we're lucky."

"I don't need five minutes," Sherlock replied, eyeing the corporal who had taken his card as he returned. "Remember not to call me by my first name."

"Clear, thank you, sirs. This way, please."

They slipped under the tape held up for them as a sergeant approached them, greeting them with a salute that John returned in kind. Sherlock gave a slight nod, expression disinterested.

"Sorry about the delay, sir. Precautions."

"Tell me what happened, Sergeant…"

"Harrington, sir."

"Tell me what happened, Sergeant Harrington."

"We got the report of the vehicle about forty-five minutes ago, sir. No sign of either occupant, although there are indications of a struggle."

"Who were the occupants?"

"Sergeants Michael Finn and Laura Hilary, sir. From what we can determine, Sergeant Finn was driving – the seat was set for someone of his height rather than hers," he explained as he led them toward the abandoned vehicle. It had a forlorn look despite the personnel that surrounded it, stopped on a slight slope, a few splashes of mud above the tires, the front doors left wide open.

"Anything else stolen other than the driver and passenger?"

"No, sir, not that we've been able to determine."

The signs of the struggle were mostly blood splattered across the two front seats, the dash, and the steering wheel. John snapped on a pair of latex gloves as Sherlock stripped out of his coat, foisting it on the sergeant.

"Probably two people," John said tersely, hearing the echoes of their most recent caller's voice in his mind, aware that the victim count had just doubled from two to four. The car's interior was cleaner than he was used to from Afghanistan – no dust, no piles of personal belongings – but the feel was the same, and it didn't escape his notice that Jamie had been nearly killed in an army Rover he'd been driving. John hadn't been there, but he'd seen it enough times to know what it looked like.

"Or someone's lost a lot of blood," he added. Sherlock met his eyes briefly, nodding.

"Two people, I think," he said. "Given the inconsistencies in the blood splatter. And she… fought back or tried to hold into the seat. Look here." He pointed with a blue gloved finger at the faint scratch marks still visible in the upholstery. "Someone with longer nails – not excessively so, but more than a man's would be."

John glared at it as Sherlock withdrew slightly, the feel of his gaze falling away. The doctor in him was appalled – it was still a lot of blood for two people, which meant that right now, there were two injured military police officers whose lives were hinging on whether or not Sherlock could figure out what had happened to them.

"I need samples of the blood," Sherlock said, jerking John's focus back to the car, but his partner was already ducking his head through the doorway and standing. "One from each seat."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant replied as Sherlock took his coat back. "Corporal! Samples of the blood for Mister Holmes here."

* * *

><p>"That's it?" John hissed as he hurried to keep up with Sherlock's long pace, confident despite the uneven, somewhat muddy ground.<p>

"I've got everything I need," Sherlock replied as Gerald opened the door, allowing John to slip into the relative warmth and comfort of the car's interior.

"Two swabs of blood?"

"That and a number of invaluable observations," Sherlock said as the car's engine turned over with a well cared for hum and it began to reverse slowly.

"Care to fill me in?" John demanded.

"I need to be sure I'm right, first," Sherlock replied, leaning forward to slide open the glass that ensured their privacy. "Back to Bart's, please, Gerald."

* * *

><p>Sherlock paced, eyes closed, palms together with his fingers against his lips. He'd memorized the layout of the lab in one quick glance so he could move unrestricted without having to waste useful mental energy. Listening to Molly Hooper work helped keep track of the time – although that wasn't strictly necessary. At the back of his mind, he could feel the seconds slipping away the same way he knew John could.<p>

He could see it in his partner's eyes whenever he met them, unspoken but not unacknowledged. What John probably wasn't aware of was the blame, a flicker of anger Sherlock caught only infrequently –_ do something, fix this._ More than that, he saw John fighting it, knowing it was irrational, that the blame lay with Jim and not with Sherlock.

But this wouldn't have happened if he'd paid attention properly, if he hadn't missed the one person who could drive a wedge between them without even intending to.

Or if he hadn't given over to emotions in the first place.

The thought brought him up short – he knew he didn't have time for it but he couldn't dispel it. If he'd made another choice the day Gabriel had flung his own ignorance in his face, if he'd turned his back on the knowledge and left things the way they were, they wouldn't be here. John would be inconsequential to Jim, as would anyone he cared about.

If he could go back now, reverse the decision that had led him to Baker Street to confront John about what he had so foolishly overlooked…

He wouldn't do it.

Sherlock stopped, eyes flying open, focussing unerringly on John, whose own eyes narrowed in return, mirroring confusion.

He _couldn't_ do it.

In the whole of his life, the only thing he would change was not seeing what Jim had, not identifying a potential weakness, not moving to secure it before his rival took advantage of it.

But not John. He'd never once had reason to regret the presence of any of the people he brought into his life and he was certainly not going to start feeling that with John.

"What?" the doctor asked.

"Ms. Hooper," Sherlock said, glancing over his shoulders, eyes dropping somewhat so he could just make out Molly's startled movement, the way she raised her head quickly to meet his sidelong gaze. "You should be finding indications that the blood was frozen."

"How– how did you know that?" Molly asked.

"John," Sherlock said, ignoring her to turn back to his partner, pushing aside all of the shocking realizations that had really chosen the wrong possible time to surface. "How much blood would you say was in that car?"

"How much? About two pints."

"Not about, exactly two pints. The blood belongs to Finn and Hilary but it's been stored."

"Are you sure?" John demanded and Sherlock spun back to Molly, extending his hand to her, awaiting an answer.

"Yes," she said. "It's got all the right signs."

"At some point – I'd say within the past month – the sergeants each gave a pint of their blood, which was then frozen for future use. Did you notice anything odd about the struggle in the vehicle, John?"

John stared at him for a moment then gave a little shake of his head.

"No marks on the doors, no hairs, no firearms discharged. These are experienced military police officers, yet they were both overpowered without much resistance. The scratch marks on the seat were left deliberately – as was the blood – to divert the investigation away from flight to abduction. A real struggle between hijackers and military police would have much more violent and left far more traces. It was staged."

"But why?"

Sherlock drew his hands to his lips again, feeling the warmth of breath against his skin as he exhaled, staring unseeingly in front of him.

"I don't know," he admitted, then scowled, trying to shake the irritation away. "I didn't want to resort to this, but there's someone we need to see."

* * *

><p>The sound of his phone was nearly lost in the racket surrounding him, but he felt the faint vibration through the layers of his suit. Mycroft Holmes withdrew his mobile from his pocket, read the text and then sighed, raising his eyes toward the ceiling as if to appeal for divine intervention.<p>

In the case of his baby brother, no amount of fervent prayer or logical reasoning ever seemed to work.

_What are you doing?_ he sent.

* * *

><p>John watched as Sherlock checked his phone, made a vague disgusted noise, and tucked it away again to focus on the most recent picture on Jamie's phone. He flashed him a curious look and, after a moment, Sherlock met his eyes.<p>

"Unimportant," he assured him, although it didn't make John feel much better. He had no idea where they were going – Sherlock had given Gerald some instructions but had made sure to do it outside of John's hearing and was now keeping quiet, concentration bent on the latest puzzle. Whatever was going through his mind, he wasn't in a hurry to share it, and it left John with a useless feeling that seemed anchored in his lungs.

He didn't miss the flicker in Sherlock's grey eyes when Jamie's phone rang again. Sherlock let it ring a second time, then answered the call, allowing a second or two to slip by before he said:

"Hello?"

"The clue's in the name," said the trembling voice of the man on the other end of the line.

"Whose name?" Sherlock asked, frowning matching the one John could feel depressing his own features. "Why would you be giving me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything? Because– I'm bored. We w-were made for each other, Sherlock."

"Then tell me where Jamie is," Sherlock said sharply.

"Patience."

The line went dead even as Sherlock's lips parted on another question. He pressed them together, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhaled.

"Whose name?" he repeated. "Harrington? Hilary? Finn? Do any of those mean anything to you?"

"No," John replied.

"Nor me," Sherlock said, worrying his lower lip, eyes sliding away to gaze into the middle distance. He refocused as the car slowed to a stop and he glanced out of the window, the look of concentration on his features shifting to one of confusion.

"We're going to a McDonald's?" John asked, incredulous.

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, the same uncertainty etched into his tone. "It appears that we are."


	79. Chapter 79

He sighed as he unwound the silencer from the pistol – it would have been difficult to position himself away from the splatter without drawing too much attention to his actions, but now one of his suits was ruined.

He'd have to spend the evening turning it to ashes while dismantling the gun and dissolving its components.

Tedious.

"You misunderstand me," Charles said to the newly made corpse. "_You_ were not the talent I was interested in." Blue eyes that had so recently gleamed unevenly, reflecting the unpredictable mind beneath, now stared past him, dull and vacant.

He opened the blinds as a ready signal and donned his coat, secreting the gun away before shutting the door on the silence of the office behind him.

The secretary's office was down the corridor – nowhere near far enough to have missed the shot but it scarcely mattered. She raised her dark eyes to him when he stopped in the doorway, still seated in her chair, clutching her handbag and coat.

"_Mademoiselle_," he murmured, letting his lips stretch into a slow smile. "Have you got everything?"

She nodded at the box with the laptop, files, and external hard drives.

"Is he–"

"None of his people will bother you again," he said. "You have my word."

* * *

><p>"This can't be right!" John hissed as he followed Sherlock through the crowded restaurant, trying to ignore the paradoxically nauseating and appetizing smell of fried food permeating the air.<p>

"I'm sure it is," Sherlock replied and John gave a sharp shake of his head that he knew went unseen.

"I thought you said you had a map of London in your head! Didn't you know where we were going?"

"Gerald was doing the navigating," Sherlock said. "But this is the right place. Hello, Mycroft."

John stopped short of running into his partner's back, startled by the sudden greeting. He managed to step around Sherlock to see Mycroft Holmes welcoming his brother with a roll of his eyes and a put upon expression. He was seated in an uncomfortable looking hard plastic chair attached to a table, accompanied by an attractive brunette who was not, John noted, Angela MacTaggart – and who was thoroughly engrossed by her Blackberry.

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask the same of you. Hello, Penelope."

"Anthea," the woman replied. John glanced between her and Sherlock, who had acknowledged her reply using nearly the same expression with which Mycroft had welcomed him – although she hadn't so much as glanced up from her phone.

"All the restaurants in London and he chose this one," Mycroft replied.

"And I thought the Happy Meal was for you," Sherlock said dryly. "Must be quite taxing for the diet."

"The diet's fine. Why are you here, Sherlock? And what on Earth were you thinking, breaking into a secured military area?"

"I didn't break in, I was admitted. And 'secured' is a stretch, Mycroft. It had some police tape around it."

"As well as armed military police officers guarding it."

"The same ones who admitted me," Sherlock replied. "I needed information."

"And did you get it?" his brother asked, arching a pale eyebrow. Sherlock's eyes flickered.

"Do you really think this is the best place to discuss this? My car is right outside."

Mycroft sighed again, glancing across the table at his companion, who went right on ignoring them.

"Very well, just let me find–"

"Uncle Sherlock!"

To John's surprise, the irritation and tension vanished almost completely from Sherlock's features and he crouched down in a smooth movement, opening his long arms to a young boy barrelling toward him. The boy threw his own arms around Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock shifted his weight easily to stand again, placing a kiss on the boy's cheek.

"Hullo, David."

David kissed back then turned to John, grinning. The doctor fought the urge to take a step back – the family resemblance was so strong as to be shocking. Had he not known better, he would have taken David for Sherlock's own child. He had the same thin face, the same startlingly pale grey eyes, the same shock of curly hair, only in light brown instead of dark.

"David, this is Doctor John Watson. John, my nephew, David Holmes."

"Hullo, Doctor Watson," David said. "It's good to meet you."

"And you," John said, the words sounding hollow and strange. He wanted this all to end, for every situation to stop feeling so surreal that he had no grounding, nothing to hold onto. Every minute that slipped away meant a minute closer to a young man blowing up and something – possibly the same thing – happening to Jamie.

"David, I need to speak with your father for a few minutes. Will you be all right with Karen?"

The woman who had called herself Anthea looked up and huffed softly but Sherlock ignored her as thoroughly as she had him.

"Yes," David replied. "I was playing with the other kids."

"Then by all means, go back and immerse yourself in that experiment in germ warfare," Sherlock said, setting his nephew down.

"Can you come for tea tomorrow, please?" David asked, lacing his small hand into Sherlock's.

"Not tomorrow but in a few days," Sherlock promised. "Now go do whatever it is small children do when adults are only vaguely paying attention. Possibly if you devise some sort of coup amongst the factions, your father would be very proud."

David grinned and Sherlock bent down to accept a kiss from his nephew before the boy ran back to the raucous mess that was the restaurant's play area.

_Did that just happen?_ John asked himself as Mycroft stood to join them. The noise and the grease saturated air were making him dizzy – he hadn't eaten at all that day. It seemed like a bad idea to start with the food here.

The cloying smell was thankfully lost as they stepped outside and slipped back into the car. Sherlock paused outside to speak to Gerald in low tones again before joining them, the faint click of the door closing them into a quiet, private silence.

"I would have expected a bit more subtlety from you, Sherlock," Mycroft commented.

"I'm in a hurry," Sherlock replied.

"Two abducted Redcaps? I wouldn't think it worth your time."

"I saw their vehicle, Mycroft, so you can drop the pretence. I know that they staged it and I have a decent idea of how they did – I need to know _why_."

"That's classified information, Sherlock. You're hardly a man to be trusted with state secrets."

"I can give you the people who helped them stage the carjacking."

Mycroft gave his brother a long, considering look and John realized he'd been holding his breath through the rapid exchange. As he exhaled slowly, Mycroft's eyes flickered to him and slid away with an uncomfortable amount of information.

"Why would you do that?"

"Right now, with David in your immediate care, you shouldn't be asking me that question," Sherlock replied. Mycroft's expression shut down, ice reflecting thunder. "It isn't a threat, Mycroft, it's a statement of fact. Whatever you and Angela do, I won't have it said that my actions put my nephew in danger. Get me the information and you will get not only your missing Redcaps but their co-conspirators."

For a tense moment, John thought Mycroft would refuse.

"Anthea will have the information to you within the hour," he said, with a curt nod, his voice cold.

_Too long!_ John thought frantically, pursing his lips against a protest when Sherlock nodded.

"You owe my son your presence at dinner," Mycroft warned as he tapped on the pane of glass behind him.

"I keep my promises," Sherlock replied.

"See that you do." The door was opened for him and the elder Holmes stepped out smoothly, not even bothering to look back. John felt a shift in the tension when the door was shut again – with Mycroft's help, they could keep working, but the thought of waiting chafed. They needed to _do_ something.

_Steady_, he told himself. The waiting was always the worst and he was trained to deal with it. He had done it in Afghanistan, he could do here.

* * *

><p>There was a covered tray on the coffee table and Sherlock waved John toward it.<p>

"Sit. Eat," he ordered, taking to pacing the length of his office as he had the smaller space in the morgue's lab, eyes distant, palms pressed together with his index fingers resting against his lips.

"What about you?" John asked to which he received a faint shake of the head.

"It will only slow me down."

He thought about arguing but relented – if Sherlock needed to think, picking a fight would only distract him. Lifting the lid off the tray revealed only enough food for one person anyway, and John repressed a sigh. Sherlock had clearly ordered this and hadn't requested anything for himself.

He bit into the sandwich, chewing mechanically, not really tasting the food. It seemed ridiculous – almost decadent – to be eating right now, even if he knew going without would only make him worse.

"What name?" Sherlock hissed and John looked up from his sandwich. "Do either of them mean anything to you, John? Finn or Hilary?"

"Um, I served with a woman once named Finn. Jess– no, Jennifer Finn."

"What was her relationship to you?"

"She was a nurse and my bunkmate's girlfriend."

"Your bunkmate, what was his name?"

"Ken Emerson. I think they ended up getting married."

"But you're not sure. You haven't kept in touch with him?"

"Not for years now," John replied, shaking his head. Sherlock paused his pacing, fixing John with a penetrating stare.

"Irrelevant then," he said and resumed pacing, taping his index fingers together. "What about Hilary?"

"If I ever knew anyone by that name, I don't remember," John sighed. "What about Sergeant Harrington?"

"He doesn't matter," Sherlock murmured. "His presence was incidental – if it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else."

He stopped suddenly, spinning back to John, who paused in mid-bite.

"They weren't abducted. We know that from the indications of freezing in their blood and the lack of real struggle exhibited in the vehicle. I can think of a dozen reasons why someone would want to harm a police officer but what reason would they have to stage an attack and disappear? Obviously they were avoiding something, but what?"

"Some sort of disciplinary action, probably," John said.

"Yes, but why this, why now? If it had been made public, we would already know about it and they would have been at least suspended from their duties, am I right?"

John nodded.

"And if it had been an initial investigation? Would they also be under suspension?"

"Maybe not," John said. "Depends on what the charges were."

"Or they could be avoiding a scandal altogether. Getting out before anything comes to light at all. This has Jim written all over it, but _why_?"

"What do you mean?" John demanded.

"He's a consulting criminal. He solves problems. Relocation is hardly an issue – nor is staging an abduction, as you've just seen."

"But why would he go to all that trouble to send you there knowing you'd figure out it was fake?"

"Because he's not interested in them," Sherlock said. "At best they would be minor clients, probably paying more than they could afford but it won't be a significant sum to him. And it will already have been paid. Where they are isn't important – it's _why_ they had to leave."

"What about who moved them?" John demanded. "You said you'd give Mycroft that information!"

"I will," Sherlock replied, waving a hand dismissively. "Jim won't be directly involved, and it won't lead back to him. He'll have chosen people whom he doesn't mind losing. Gabriel can work out who they are. It's not important to us."

"That's just–" John began then cut himself off, sitting back against the sofa cushions. "Sherlock, that's just insane."

"It's Jim," Sherlock replied shortly. "For him, it's a game. You can't win a game without sacrificing some pieces – or that's how he sees it."

"Christ," John muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, his appetite vanishing. With a sigh, he put the last few bites of his sandwich back on the plate and tilted his head back against the cushions, eyes closed.

* * *

><p>"Look at this."<p>

It was the first words that had been spoken since Mycroft's assistant – whatever her name really was – had dropped off a number of files and two flash drives nearly an hour ago. John had watched Sherlock work in perfect silence, the physical information spread out on his desk, both drives plugged into his computer, all while swallowing his own urge to yell, to demand answers.

"What?" he asked, pushing himself onto stiff legs, crossing the office to Sherlock's desk. Outside of the office's long windows, the sun had long since set into a night illuminated by the orange and white lights of London, but John had no idea what time it was.

"Mycroft didn't know," Sherlock murmured.

"What?" John demanded again, eyes snapping up to find Sherlock meeting his gaze.

"You suggested some sort of disciplinary action but there's nothing in here to indicate there was any sort of investigation taking place."

"It took you an hour to figure that out?"

"It took me five minutes to figure that out. I've spent the last fifty minutes trying to piece together what drove the sergeants to abandon their duties in such a way it looked like they'd been injured or killed. Mycroft isn't sure, either – that does help explain why he agreed so quickly to give me the information."

"And now you think you've found it."

"But I need your help. I'm not a medical doctor – I could be wrong."

"What is it?"

Sherlock turned his monitor toward John; there was a series of grainy colour images displayed on the screen that he recognized as being from the field – either Afghanistan or Iraq. The light was low and dark, probably night and shot on a camera without a good flash or adjustable settings.

"Looks like an abandoned house," he said.

"Yes, in Kabul. In 2006, both Finn and Hilary were stationed in Afghanistan. He was a corporal, she a lance-corporal. They were part of a convoy out to collect several high ranking military officers from one of the hotels where they were in meetings with British diplomats."

"That is _not_ one of the hotels," John said. "I've seen them."

"Their vehicle was caught in gunfire and they were forced to abandon it and take shelter in a deserted house, which is what you see pictured here."

"Why would they take pictures of the house?" John asked, leaning forward slightly, eyes skimming the photographs again, wishing they were better quality.

"They didn't. These were taken on a later date; the information attached to each photo makes that clear. But what do you _see_, John?"

John narrowed his eyes in concentration, looking over each photo more carefully, trying to pick out anything of importance.

"Wait–" he said suddenly. "That there– it looks like blood."

Sherlock let out a harsh sigh and John's gaze snapped back at him in time to see the utter relief flicker rapidly across his features.

"That's what I needed to know."

"One of them was shot? One of them shot the other?"

"No. Sergeant Finn was shot in the leg – rather, the bullet grazed his leg. Not a serious injury. Sergeant Hilary escaped unscathed."

"There's no way that much blood at that height on the wall came from him – not unless he was seven feet tall. There was somebody else in there."

"Both sergeants reported having to discharge their weapons, but of course they did – they had to flee from their vehicle to the relative safety of the house. Neither of them mentioned a third person, nor was there any record of a third officer travelling with them."

"Then who?"

"The key is in the name," Sherlock said, a hint of anger underlying his voice. "Only we haven't _got_ a name. Only this."

He uncovered a photograph and spun it toward John. The focus was better although the lighting was still poor, it was bright enough to see a spent bullet that looked like it had been dug out of something more solid than a human body. Printed on the photograph was a coordinate, separated into degrees, minutes and seconds.

"Where is that?" John asked.

"Nowhere significant," Sherlock snapped. "It runs through either eastern North America and western South America or central Russia and India but without directional and latitudinal references, it's useless. It's nowhere in Afghanistan and is only close if you count the subcontinent as 'close'."

"Who took these photos, though?"

"I don't know. They were sent anonymously according to Mycroft – any attempts to trace the camera from the metadata were unsuccessful."

"But why would you give a bullet a map reference?" John asked, bending over the picture again. "It's not– wait."

"John," Sherlock said, a warning tone in his voice.

"Wait," John said again, biting his lip, covering the image of the bullet with his hand and studying the numbers. "I think I know what this is. Give me a pen."


	80. Chapter 80

"It's not a map reference," John said, scratching out the coordinate symbols, replacing them with dashes. "It's an American social security number. They use them as their military ID numbers."

* * *

><p>"Cutting it awfully close, aren't you, Sherlock? I must admit, I'm a <em>teensy<em> bit disappointed – thought you'd have sorted it out by now. You did _so well_ with the last one."

"Who was the first to suspect?" Sherlock asked, voice far calmer than the rigid lines of tension that ran from shoulder to the fingers in which he held his mobile would suggest. "The Americans or us?"

"Oh _very good!_ A little help from your new pet, maybe?" Sherlock met John's eyes, giving his head a brief shake; John pursed his lips to keep silent, eyes fixed on his partner. "But you haven't told me what it is."

"A dead American serviceman – I assume it was an accident? They didn't know he was there, he startled them, they exchanged fire. He was killed and Sergeant Finn was injured."

"Mm, so they claim, of course. Wouldn't you?"

"I'd never mismanage anything quite so badly," Sherlock replied and John felt his teeth grind against each other at the sound of Jim's delighted laughter over the phone.

"It was rather messy, wasn't it? You still haven't told me all you've learned."

"Clever of you to write the service number on the photograph as a coordinate."

"It was, wasn't it?" Jim answered, sounding gleeful. "I thought you might appreciate that – once you figured it out. Can't let the Americans get the better of us, as it were."

"And they came to you? Please, Jim, will you fix it for us?"

"It's _so easy_ to make someone disappear. But then, you know that, don't you? The clue was in the name, Sherlock."

"Yes," Sherlock said, jaw clenching momentarily. "Sergeant Geoffrey Norton. A scandal threatening to surface, wasn't it? Accidentally shooting an ally then covering it up? That can't look good for our military, can it?"

"Well done! I rather thought you might like that one! You do enjoy being at the centre of these things, don't you? Of course, it's not the same Geoffrey Norton as your woman's – but it can't be _all_ fun, I suppose."

Sherlock met John's gaze again, eyes like storm clouds. It had taken several minutes after finding the dead American soldier's name and making the link for the rage in Sherlock's eyes to dull to what it was now – and John wondered what the effort of staying so outwardly calm was costing him.

"Mycroft will be sure this one is exposed, however," Sherlock said.

"Just so," Jim said. "People need to see justice done, don't they? You and your little doctor really should receive commendations – but then, you wouldn't want too much exposure, would you? Especially not at a time like this."

The line went dead, the sudden and shocking silence punctuated a moment later by the sound of Jamie's phone.

"He s-says you can come and fetch me," the trembling voice on the other end managed. "Help. Help me please."

* * *

><p>This was not how he'd envisioned spending his first night in Sherlock's flat.<p>

Sherlock had offered the use of any of the three beds in the flat but the doctor had refused. Sleeping alone in Sherlock's seemed strange and unappealing. He didn't want to sleep there for the first time alone and under these circumstances. Sleeping in either of the two other bedrooms made him feel like an imposing house guest.

So he was on the couch with a blanket and a throw pillow. Tired but awake, staring through the darkness that was illuminated only by a faint light coming from Sherlock's office.

If he strained his ears, he could sometimes pick up the sounds of Sherlock working, but more often than that, all he heard was silence. There were no sounds from the street below, and even the hum of the refrigerator motor was muted when it came on.

With a sigh, he shook off the blanket and padded down the hall to the office, easing the door open. Sherlock looked up, face pale in the lamplight.

"I want to help," John said. "Tell me what I can do."

"You can sleep," Sherlock replied.

"What? How will that help?"

"It will mean you're rested and better able to focus when the next call comes in. You're of more use if you're not exhausted."

"How do you expect me to sleep now?" John demanded, keeping his voice low despite the fact that they were the only two in the flat.

"How did you sleep in Afghanistan?" Sherlock asked. John opened his mouth with an angry retort but Sherlock was watching him levelly, no sarcasm or judgement in his expression.

John sighed. "What about you?"

"I require very little sleep," Sherlock replied. The doctor held his gaze for a moment then slumping against the doorframe in defeat. "Use one of the beds, John," Sherlock said, his voice almost tender. "Sleeping on the sofa will do you no good. I _will_ wake you as soon as I get the next call."

John hesitated before nodding reluctantly, pushing himself away from the doorframe.

"Let me know," he said, simply because it felt better to say it.

"I will," Sherlock promised again. "John. One of the beds."

John paused, pinching the bridge of his noise.

"Fine," he sighed. "Fine."

* * *

><p>They put him in a windowless room with a barred door and only a small nightlight for illumination – there wasn't even any light coming in around the edges of the door. He was inside, that much was obvious from the comfortable temperature.<p>

Inside where, he had no idea. He hadn't seen anyone or heard any voices beyond Jim's giving curt orders. The man who had unbound him seemed as silent as Jamie himself.

In the deep shadows, Jamie found a cot and a toilet. He smiled grimly; not much worse than he'd endured in a few places overseas. He also found a tray of pre-packaged food and two bottles of water.

It gave the situation a glimmer of bleak hope. They didn't want him dead – at least not yet.

He saved one bottle of water for later and split the meal into thirds, rationing what little he'd been given in case he wasn't fed again. With that done, he paced the room carefully once more, counting his steps, trying to gauge the size. A few minutes spent searching the door frame for weaknesses proved useless – not that he'd suspected otherwise.

With an inward sigh, Jamie settled onto the cot, drawing the blanket up to his chin. It was difficult to get comfortable on the hard, narrow bed with his limbs and shoulders still aching from being bound for hours on end. It took some time, but he eventually found a position that didn't hurt quite so much, and willed himself to sleep.

* * *

><p>John started awake at the sound of his name being spoken softly next to his ear. For a long, disorienting moment he didn't know where he was, his groggy brain trying to superimpose the lines and shadows of his own room onto this one. It was only when he realized Sherlock was standing next to him that he remembered.<p>

Jamie's phone was in Sherlock's hand, the screen glowing with a muted blue light.

"Next call?" John asked, bracing himself for Jim's new puzzle even as he tried to shake away the remnants of sleep.

"No," Sherlock replied.

_Oh god,_ John thought numbly, staring at the phone. "What's happened?" he managed, his voice sounding distant and hollow. Sherlock's face was etched with stark, grim lines as he passed the phone over. It was open to the text programme but instead of the blocked number, the name at the top of the screen read simple "Tricia".

_Twenty-two hours up to my shoulders in the blood of kids who are barely old enough to vote. I want to come home. _

"Jesus," John whispered, tipping his head back toward the ceiling, eyes falling closed.

Sherlock's hand trailed through his hair and then he was gone again, light from down the hallway spilling in through the open doorway.

John stared at the message, watching the minutes slip away on the tiny clock, then haltingly typed out a reply, thumb shaking slightly.

_I know, love. I know. Soon_.

* * *

><p>John lay alone in the darkness after Sherlock had come back silently to collect Jamie's phone. A scant sliver of light made its way down the corridor from Sherlock's office and, if he concentrated, John could hear the occasional <em>tap-tap-tap<em> of Sherlock's fingers clattering rapidly over his keyboard or the faint creak of footsteps when he moved.

In the near darkness, John could feel the size of the flat like an aching gulf. There was so much empty space here – how could it be filled by one person? Or even two? His own flat had seemed huge when he'd first moved in, especially compared to the tiny space allotted to him for his bedsit.

Sherlock's too-large flat made him all the more aware of how powerless he was, at the mercy of a madman's timetable. John hadn't felt this crushing helplessness since he'd been in the hospital with his new RAMC mug, his military career over and without plans for his future.

He'd been in this oppressive limbo then, too, waiting for something to happen, not knowing when it would. Only this time, there were lives on the line, seconds ticking away before someone else was coerced into speaking for Jim, into playing his insane game. He hated that they were being kept one step behind by a man who deserved nothing more than a simple bullet to the head.

John had no idea how long he lay there before he heard soft footsteps in the corridor and the door was eased fully open, silent and smooth on its hinges. With a sigh, he sat up; even from another room, Sherlock had probably known John hadn't slept since Tricia's text.

Wordlessly, the younger man passed Jamie's mobile and John wasn't sure if he was relieved or dismayed that it was from the blocked number Jim was using, not from Tricia. The photo was of a woman on a morgue slab, a white sheet drawn up to her shoulders, eyes closed and face set with that waxy neutrality of a new corpse.

"I recognize her," John said. "She's got– she _had_ a makeover show. Mrs. Hudson watches her all the time. It's, um– Connie Something, I think."

"Connie Prince," Sherlock supplied and John raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"You've seen her show?"

"Thankfully, no. I do, however, read the news, and I have been for the last several hours. Ms. Prince died early yesterday morning, apparently from untreated tetanus."

"Apparently?"

"It can't be that obvious if Jim's sending this as his next puzzle."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. Not yet."

"There hasn't been another call?"

Sherlock shook his head as John returned the mobile with a sigh and shuffled out of bed. His clothing felt stale against his skin and his mouth and eyes were dry and raw from lack of sleep and hydration. Hard to believe that twenty-four hours ago, he'd awoken in his own bed, feeling safe and content until two simple text messages had shattered that illusion.

"Come with me," Sherlock ordered and John was ushered into the kitchen where a bowl, a box of cereal, and a carton of milk were plunked unceremoniously on the small table in front of him. Sherlock set to making coffee, the smell of which made John's mouth water and his head spin. He sipped it carefully when a mug was presented to him, and helped himself to some cereal under Sherlock's watchful eye.

"So how do we figure it out?" John asked, pushing his empty bowl away. "It's not like we can just walk into the morgue– well, no. I suppose we could, right?"

"Ordinarily, yes," Sherlock replied.

"But?"

"But ordinarily my name hasn't been spray painted on Scotland Yard following quite a bit more contact with the police than makes me comfortable. I don't trust that Inspector Lestrade wouldn't hear about it and want to know precisely why I was looking into Ms. Prince's death." He shook his head, setting his mug aside. "I can access the coroner's database – that should give us enough information to start."

"Should?" John echoed.

"I woke you up as soon as the photograph came in. I haven't checked on the records yet."

"Then we're wasting time!" John snapped. "We don't know how much–"

"No, we don't know how much time Jim's going to give us," Sherlock interrupted. "Which is why you're eating now. You may not have time later."

"I'm done now," John said. "So let's go. Do your criminal computer stuff and get Connie Prince's records. If I could help identify a blood stain on a wall, I can do better with this."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch, a transient gleam passing through his grey eyes. For just a moment, John spirits lifted almost imperceptibly at the hint of confidence in Sherlock's features. They'd come this far already, they'd solved Jim's first two puzzles.

Sherlock was on Jamie's side. They both were.

Surely that had to count for something?

* * *

><p>The tone was different this time.<p>

In the background, silence. No murmur of distant voices, no Doppler shift of passing vehicles. Someone alone, private. A flat or a house – a flat would be worse, far more people in danger should the bomb go off, so a flat was the obvious choice. Why risk the possibility that only one fatality should occur if he failed?

For Jim, that wouldn't even be an option.

Listening past the slow, uncertain words became suddenly difficult when he realized it wasn't the age of the woman on the other end of the line making her speech less steady. He saw the realization reflected in John's eyes; Jim had taken someone "defective", someone who couldn't see. Someone who couldn't read the words that would otherwise have been written, who was repeating them as they were spoken to her.

John's expression was full of questions that narrowed down to a single one: how would Jamie do it when his turn came?


	81. Chapter 81

This probably was the first time Sherlock had ever had a dead body spread out of on his living room carpet.

Although if it had been an actual body, it would have been about ten feet tall and somewhat fragmented. It was better than John could have hoped short of seeing the corpse itself; someone at the morgue understood the power of celebrity (and perhaps had even been a fan?) and had documented most of Connie Prince for the record.

Sherlock was balanced on the balls of his feet amidst the carefully laid photographs, hands pressed together under his chin, grey eyes narrowed. John stood uncomfortably next the artificially rectangular boundary of the "body", trying to keep a small distance between the stack of photographs that were of Connie Prince's back.

"Have you ever seen anyone die of tetanus?" Sherlock asked in a low murmur.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably and Sherlock raised his eyes to meet his, a flicker of surprise in their pale depths.

"A couple," John said. "Infants in Afghanistan. We couldn't get to them soon enough. But it's not a common cause of death here. Most people are vaccinated and it's easy to get treatment."

"And if she'd gone to the hospital, they'd have given her a booster regardless of when her last vaccination was, correct?"

John nodded and Sherlock shifted nimbly among the photographic puzzle pieces until he was poised over the series that showed her left arm.

"She should have known," John said, feeling helpless. To die of tetanus from a scratch on a rusty nail while working in her garden? It seemed almost incredible in twenty-first century London, especially for a woman of her means. She hadn't been a strung out drug addict or living without access to clean water and soap.

"How old would you say that scratch mark is?" Sherlock asked, extending a photograph toward him.

"Less than two days," John replied. "It hasn't actually begun to heal."

"Yet that's the mark that's supposed to have killed her. Less than two days before she died? Unless I'm mistaken, that's far too fast for tetanus to be the culprit. It should be– what?"

"About eight to ten days," John said. "After over a week it should look a lot better than this."

"Precisely." Sherlock took the photograph back, returning it to its position. "But we already know that tetanus isn't what killed her – the timing of the scratch isn't actually relevant. What _else_ could kill someone so quickly without leaving a mark?"

"Poison," John replied immediately. Sherlock met his gaze again, nodding at the report in his hands. "But the toxicologist's report says there's nothing unusual in her system."

"Jim may have paid him off, of course," Sherlock murmured. John's shoulders rose with a sigh as he dropped his head back, the stiff muscles in the back of his neck protesting the movement.

"We need to see the body," he muttered.

"We need to not be confined to a prison cell," Sherlock replied, his words distant as if speaking was a secondary function, an automatic response that wouldn't distract from his concentration. He was silent for a long minute, eyes darting over the photographs, before he looked up suddenly, fingers flexing almost as if he meant to reach out. John fought his own response to do the same, then felt a hollow chill, wondering if he'd ever regret the moment just lost to him, if he'd look back and berate himself for not taking it.

A deep breath helped dispel that sensation, but the hint in Sherlock's eyes told him it hadn't gone unnoticed. His gaze was held for a long moment, taking the place of the touch that hadn't happened.

"I need as much information on Ms. Prince as you can find," he said, and there was something gentle beneath the directness of his tone. "My laptop's in the office. There's a notepad and a pen on the desk somewhere. You can work in here, if you'd like."

* * *

><p>The photographs were frustratingly limiting, even when he spread out the second set. A body – even a dead body – was so much more illuminating, with little tells and tales that a camera couldn't necessarily record.<p>

Not for the first time, he regretted the recent exposure to the police. He may have otherwise been able to talk his way into the morgue without coming to the attention of some very suspicious detectives.

If Henry Hudson's people had the sense to leave his ex-wife alone, if Williams hadn't broken into her flat, if Gabriel hadn't been there... Then they might not have come to the attention of the police. Without an injured leg, Gabriel wouldn't have had to reason to visit John and would have had no reason to feel like he needed to evade Sherlock's observation and wouldn't have taken a cab. He wouldn't have been trapped in a car with his brother and wouldn't have had to send Cheryl after him.

If that hadn't happened, Lestrade wouldn't be so familiar with his name, and the graffiti on New Scotland Yard would be a puzzle, not an arrow that pointed directly at him.

If Gabriel hadn't been shot…

There were people who didn't believe in coincidence. The abrupt stupidity of that made Sherlock's breath catch as he raised his eyes to look at John. If Gabriel hadn't been shot, _they_ wouldn't be here now, because John would never have been more than a name noted on a file of someone who owed him money.

"What?" John asked, brown eyes reflecting the pool of light cast by the lamp next to him.

"You said there was no love lost between Connie Prince and her brother, but he stood to gain if she died, is that right?"

"Yeah, according to the news, she left him everything."

"But if she'd disinherited her brother, then what? Who would the money have gone to?"

"Um, not sure," John replied. "Although there are some messages speculating it would have gone to her cat."

"Her cat?" Sherlock repeated. "There really is no end to idiot sentimentality, is there? Who else was there? A woman like her, she wouldn't be content in a small house or a modest flat – nothing but the best her money could buy. Her brother lived with her but he wouldn't be the only one. She lived in a world where everything was taken care of for her, John – her hair and make up done, her clothing chosen, told where to sit, what cameras to look into. Everything perfect, not a hair out of place. Does that strike you as a woman who would do her own cleaning?"

"There was a– I don't know what you'd call him. House staff? Raoul de Santos." He spun the laptop around to show him the picture. Precisely the kind of man Sherlock would imagine for a woman like her: young, attractive, probably not all that intelligent.

_Was she disappointed by his preferences?_ he asked himself. Neither de Santos nor the brother seemed the type to devise such a murder – but of course they weren't. The mind behind this was Jim's; the killer had simply been the instrument he'd used to carry out the plan. But _someone_ had profited from this in a way that went beyond mere money.

She: media celebrity, host of her own show that focussed solely on physical appearances, accustomed to being the center of attention, fond of her trappings. Fond of her servant? Possibly. Not fond of her brother. Probably not especially intelligent but clever and cunning enough to successfully navigate the treacherous waters of the entertainment industry, to grasp what she wanted and never let go. Materialistic, self-assured, vain.

Her brother: at odds with her. Enjoyed the money but the support stung his pride. No ambition of his own, comfortable in his lifestyle but resenting the fact that he was being taken care of by the sister he didn't like. Complacent, beleaguered, controlled.

The house keeper: Young, exotic, evidently took care of himself. Also accustomed to the lifestyle, proud, even if he had to work for it. Privy to everything that went on in the house – no stretch of the imagination to conclude there would be arguments between the siblings. His position was at stake if the money was lost but not necessarily if she died. Not clever enough to know he wasn't all that clever, resentful, vain.

"Vanity," Sherlock said, chasing the taste of triumph as the loose ends began to tie themselves together.

"What?" John asked.

"Vanity, John. The key is vanity. Look at Ms. Price – no, not the photographs on the floor, from the websites. She says she's not a day over thirty-six; an obvious lie, but how old would you say she is?"

"Well, in her late forties at least, more likely fifties."

"Precisely. And does anyone get to that age looking like that without a little help?"

"I doubt it. Not often anyway."

"You were _right_," Sherlock said, crossing the room, avoiding the photographs without needing to think about their positions, bracing himself against the arms of the chair John had settled into. "About the poison, John, you were right. We were approaching it in the wrong way. Too much of a good thing – almost anything in sufficient quantities is potentially toxic. Look at her face."

"Botox injections?" John asked.

"Exactly. Surgery leaves scars – while she does have some, she hasn't got enough for more than minor cosmetic alterations. Botox injections leave no signs beyond a needle mark that would fade within a few days, but enough at once would be lethal."

"You think her brother overdosed her?"

"No, I think her housekeeper overdosed her. He was the one administering the injections; she'd have no reason to be suspicious of him. It's a controlled substance. I can trace his purchase history."

"How long will that take?" John demanded.

* * *

><p>Not long enough.<p>

"What are you waiting for?" John demanded. The phone in his hands seemed oddly weighted, an unwanted tether to reality, a reminder that the man waiting for the other end of the call didn't deal in simple – even if something _was_ simple, Jim loved the illusion of complexity, the slight-of-hand deception that drew the eye the wrong way, created awe when none was called for.

"An obvious lie," Sherlock said, his own words repeating themselves back to him, soft echoes that adopted meanings he hadn't intended. Connie Prince's obvious lie was about her age. A vanity that needed to be indulged.

_The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience._ Mycroft had said that to him once, years ago, a subtle barb falling short of its target. He had no audience, no one to laud his name or sing his praises to the papers. Yes, he had people who worked for him who were impressed, but he wasn't doing it for them. He was doing it for the money, for the thrill, for the challenge, but he moved through the shadows, just like Mycroft did, always careful to stay several steps ahead of the law, to keep himself out of the light.

But there was always someone watching.

There always had been. Eleven years since he'd met Jim face-to-face for the first time but he'd been aware of his existence before that. He'd been waiting for the right moment. Watching.

They'd both been watching. An audience of one – the only one capable of true appreciation.

The obvious lie. The simple puzzle that seemed complex on the surface. Jim's favourite method. A little digging on the part of the police could have turned this up: Botox was a controlled substance and de Santos' orders were recorded by the government. A few well placed questions would turn up the fact that he and the brother were lovers – if Kenny Prince lost the money, so did de Santos.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice wasn't quite jarring, like a small boat rocking in the water but not tipping, leaving him feeling unsteady until he righted himself, meeting his partner's concerned gaze.

"What are you waiting for?" John repeated. "You've got to call him."

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head slowly. "No, John, this isn't it."

"What do you mean? It all makes sense – the Botox, the housekeeper, the story about the tetanus! What else is there?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, words distant as his mind spun, trying to pinpoint what he might have missed. "The Botox overdose is what killed her, and de Santos did it, but don't you see? This is too simple, John! It's too obvious."

"What?"

"Jim knew I'd solve this in a matter of hours, but he gave me twelve. Why twelve? Ten the first time, seven the last, but twelve this time. I didn't need twelve – the longest part of this was accessing de Santos' records. This wasn't the _case_, John, this was the _clue._"

* * *

><p>But what clue?<p>

John had asked that twice before falling silent – but he kept asking without words, the question hanging in the silence between them, so loud he might as well have been shouting. There were accusations underneath, burdened with questions of their own that distilled themselves down to a single demand to understand what was happening.

He could feel the unravelled threads around him like a torn tapestry he was trying to reweave without knowing the original pattern, without understanding the logic behind it because it was Jim and logic need not apply. How to explain something when there was no explanation, when the reason could simply be 'because I was bored'?

Every which way he turned, he caught fleeting glimpses of what he needed but there was no direction, no sense of connection, only the taste of frustration, the tipping fear of failure, the sound of John's breathing – too loud and harsh – the feel of his presence radiating like heat.

He knew the feeling – it had led him once to cocaine, led him now more often to pacing or snapping or cigarettes because he needed to _think_–

He needed to _stop_.

Sherlock stilled himself abruptly, breathing the tension from his shoulders. He felt firm ground beneath the torrent and held out a hand, letting his eyes fall open to look at John.

"Can you sit?" he asked, keeping his tone warm, not demanding, not impatient.

"What?"

"Can you sit?" Sherlock repeated. "Please."

John hesitated, features lined with uncertainty, but he nodded slowly and sank into the chair, hands hanging between his knees, eyes never breaking contact.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and meant it.

Eyes closed again, he drew another deep breath and chased nothing, doing it again and again and again until the storm was stilled and changed from a flood to a flow, where he could watch it go past without being dragged under.

He stayed there until it wasn't apart from him but a part of him, the balance so tenuously achieved, the reason he'd never gone back to the cocaine, the reason he smoked only as much as he did, the reason he'd never gone mad.

The ideas were suddenly clear as water, and he could catch them all at once.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's smile was startling, fleeting but genuine, and John had never seen anyone go from so tense to so still that fast before. When he met John's eyes again, his were gleaming, a bright, steady light that went beyond shrewdness, beyond cleverness.<p>

_It's Jim,_ John thought, half shocked, half numbed by the realization. _But if Jim weren't mad._

"You said eight to ten days for the tetanus virus to incubate, correct?"

John nodded.

"It wasn't tetanus but everyone was meant to believe it was. It wasn't the toxin, John, it was the timing. Everything he's done so far has been about timing – a death leading up to our first meeting, two staged deaths in the lead up to an investigation. We have to look for something that happened before Prince's death. Eight to ten days ago, to be precise."


	82. Chapter 82

Amidst the news stories of elections and environmental disasters, of the ever-present traffic snarls that plagued the city and the plans to smooth them over before the Olympic Games, the growing crisis in Greece and human interest pieces designed to distract from real thought, Sherlock found nothing.

Nothing concrete. Hints here and there – the Games had been a concern when London had won the bid. The crowds and the media coverage would be too much temptation for Jim. But it wouldn't matter, and it didn't matter _now_. It was too distant, still more potential than reality, nothing that could be manipulated beyond behind-the-scenes events.

That wasn't what Jim was after, not immediately.

A photo spread documenting a memorial service for soldiers who had recently died in Afghanistan caught his attention, but when he went through the list of names being honoured, John didn't recognize any of them.

He paced the flat, following the rapid paths of his thoughts without the need to observe where his movements led him. The layout of his home was as intuitive as breathing, and nothing changed without immediately being memorized.

He was aware of John's gaze on him – a steady contact never broken, that carried more weight than a physical touch and grew heavier with each passing moment. In the silence, he could hear the slip of the seconds from his watch as Jim's imposed time limit dissolved.

Would one death lead to another? If he didn't meet the deadline, would the unknown hostage and Jamie both die? Would the game be over?

Sherlock stopped suddenly, eyes flying open, meeting John's gaze unerringly. A flicker of confusion, a furrowing of the brow, the barest hint of hope that he tried to bury but which Sherlock saw regardless.

"Death," he said.

"_What?_" John spat.

"We're looking at this the wrong way. The records are there, we just weren't looking for them in the right place."

"What do you mean?"

"The morgue, John. Eight to ten days, that's our time frame. We need to see who was processed through the morgue where Connie Prince is now in the last week and a half."

* * *

><p>Seventy-seven year old male: heart failure. Eighty-four year old female: respiratory failure. Forty-four year old male: pneumonia resulting from complications from chemotherapy. Fifty year old female: aneurysm. Two month old infant: Unknown – possibly SIDS. Nineteen year old male: drug overdose. The last gave him pause but it had no hint of Jim about it – he'd been at a club, had taken something from an unreliable source.<p>

All identified and claimed by family members, all records in order.

Save one.

"Half the information's missing," John said, his comment ignored as Sherlock read through what hadn't been deleted by Jim's people.

Unidentified female, age unknown. Photographs: deleted. Fingerprints or DNA not registered in any law enforcement database. Height: 165 centimetres. Weight: fifty kilograms. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. Cause of death: deleted.

John's faint intake of breath came a scant second after the dull tightening of suspicion at the back of Sherlock's mind. He kept his breathing slow, deliberate. An incomplete physical description and no photographs. It could be anyone – but it wasn't. Not with Jim. It was someone he knew. Someone they somehow both knew.

"I need to change," he said, pushing himself to his feet, the information on the monitor glaring at him like an accusation. "We're going out."

* * *

><p>It wasn't Sherlock who emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later.<p>

Not Sherlock as John knew him. Gone was the perfectly tailored suit, the silk shirt, the polished leather shoes, the impeccably styled hair. In their place were worn trainers, faded blue jeans, a plain t-shirt half hidden under a denim jacket, a ball cap with a Union flag stitched onto the front obscuring his dark curls. The rectangular lenses of the glasses changed the shape of his face, making him seem somehow smaller.

Not quite unremarkable, but almost.

At fourteen, Sherlock had disguised himself as a labourer to steal a painting. John wondered what he could do now, over half a lifetime later, given more time to prepare.

"Where are we going?"

"There's someone I need to see."

* * *

><p>It was raining when they reached Battersea Park, not hard, but a steady persistent rain that gave no signs of letting up, trickling into John's hair and insinuating itself beneath his collar. He repressed a shudder and wished for an umbrella as Sherlock paid their cabbie – another mystery that had gone unsolved, at least for him. There had been no private car, and they'd walked for several minutes in what had then been only a soft drizzle before Sherlock had hailed them a taxi.<p>

"Please tell me what we're doing here," John said as the cab pulled away, tires purring through a shallow puddle. His questions had been silenced in the cab by a shake of Sherlock's head and a significant flicker of his eyes towards the front of the car. They didn't have real privacy, even if the cabbie didn't care a whit what they might say.

"I need to find someone," Sherlock replied.

"You've said that," John snapped. "Who?" He fell into step beside Sherlock, moving quickly to keep up with the other man's long-legged stride.

"The woman from the morgue files."

"But she's dead," John protested.

"No photographs, no cause of death. Either the records were tampered with after the fact or they're fakes. I need to find out which."

"Who is she?"

"Someone who trusts me."

The park wasn't crowded but it was by no means abandoned, despite the weather. Most of the other pedestrians they passed were shrouded by the black nylon of umbrellas but he and Sherlock weren't the only ones exposed to the rain. John tried to hunker down in his jacket, narrowly avoiding a splashing by a group of cyclists intent on their training.

Sherlock wove through the maze of trails and John followed doggedly, trying to piece together where they might be going as they left the sparse crowds behind, cutting through wooded areas on narrow footpaths. The trees offered no protection from the rain, leaves heavy with moisture that gave way and splattered on him, soaking his already saturated hair and skin. Sherlock didn't seem to notice or care, moving with assurance across the slippery combination of mud and grass.

John heard the distant traffic crossing the Chelsea Bridge a few moments before he spotted the first tent tucked away between some trees. There were a handful more – but there would be more people bunking down here at night than there were tents. They saw no one; either hiding or out for the day, John couldn't tell.

Sherlock veered off the path suddenly, toward a small transparent tarpaulin under which three people were sleeping, buried in sleeping bags or under grimy blankets. One of them muttered angrily, half sitting up when Sherlock shook him.

"I'm lookin' for Crissy."

"Piss off," the other man snapped. A package of cigarettes appeared in Sherlock's hand from an inner pocket of his jacket, held up like an offering or a prize.

"Any of you seen Crissy? Mister Holmes is lookin' for her."

John tried to keep the surprise at the sudden accent change to himself but the stirring men didn't seem to notice. A pair of dark eyes glared at John from beneath a worn and faded toque.

"Who's he, then?"

"He's with me," Sherlock said. "Where's Crissy?"

"Ain't seen her," the first man replied stubbornly, supported by affirmative grunts from the other two.

"Since when?"

"Dunno."

"Coupla weeks," one of the others said. "Try the bridge." He jerked his head in the general direction of the distant traffic. Sherlock flipped the package of cigarettes at him and stood, towing John in his wake as he strode away.

Underneath the Chelsea Bridge was much the same, only out of the rain: there were makeshift bedrolls or shelters, piles of rubbish that someone had deemed useful, broken bottles scattering slivers of greens and browns across the concrete, people huddled under blankets, eyes following them suspiciously.

Sherlock repeated his performance – he was met with mistrust or outright animosity, but the name "Mister Holmes" seemed to open doors. Most of them recognized it, but none of them seemed to recognize _him_. No one admitted to seeing the woman Sherlock was looking for until an older woman sitting next to a grizzled man with a scar obscuring his right eye nodded.

"Benny says he saw her down under Waterloo last week," she said and the man beside her grumbled in what sounded like assent. Sherlock handed her a package of cigarettes and John didn't miss that there was a fifty folded up neatly against the pack, visible only to them and to her.

"You tell Mister Holmes we tol' you," she insisted.

"I will," he promised and they were scrambling back up the bank to the road and into a cab, leaving puddles of water on the seats. Sherlock stopped them on the other side of the river, leading John down to the more public areas of the lee of the bridge. He leaned against a railing, watching the river, lighting a cigarette. John stared and Sherlock gave him a curious look.

"I don't much anymore," he said. John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to regain some sense of reality.

"There's a woman out there with a bomb strapped to her and you're taking a smoke break?"

"I'm waiting," Sherlock replied.

"For what?" John snapped, patience unravelling.

"The right person."

"You think she's just going to show up? Sherlock, she's probably dead and lying in that morgue and we–"

Sherlock was pulling away from him, a faint wisp of smoke trailing from the cigarette between his fingers, toward a young man sitting on a bench with a creased paper cup.

"Spare change?" he asked, jingling the cup hopefully in their direction.

"What for?" Sherlock asked.

"Cup of coffee," the younger man replied. John saw the flash of a twenty this time before it was tucked into the cup.

"Compliments of Mister Holmes. Crissy'd like one, too."

"Dunno about that, but if you went up to the Arches, you could ask Dev about it. She'd know."

They were off again, John floundering to keep up as another cab whisked them off and deposited them outside a maze of dark alleys and graffiti-tagged brickwork, puddles squelching underfoot while the archways and overhangs did nothing to shelter them from the rain. There were more people here, too, half hidden in shadows and blankets, suspicious or indifferent eyes following them as they slipped past, Sherlock stopping every so often to enquire about Crissy or Dev, getting neither answers nor replies that made sense.

The cold was seeping through into John's bones, numbing his hands. Trying to bundle them into his pockets was useless; he could feel the damp through the fabric of his coat. His breath misted in front of him as he tried to keep track of the twists and turns, cataloguing each narrow passageway in an attempt to make a mental map he could use to trace his way back out. Sherlock seemed to know exactly where he was, moving with subtle confidence, never a motion out of place, never startled by a shift in the shadows that became a person instead of a pile of rags and blankets or bin bags.

John could feel the time trickling away with the raindrops that traced down his face and down the back of his neck. He could feel the weight of their failure pressing down on him while Sherlock seemed light and confident, so sure of each movement and action. John wished he could see what his partner did, wished he could understand all of the possibilities Jim had laid out for them.

There was a blind woman and a voiceless man waiting on them to stop the clock, to set things right, and they weren't going to make it. John felt it like an iron certainty, like a twist of a fist around his heart that made his steps stutter. Catching himself with splayed fingers against a cool, damp brick wall, his breath stopped in his throat, unable to make it to his lungs.

He would have to explain – to himself, to Tricia, to Ellie and her kids. He'd have to explain and he'd never be able to. They'd pulled each other through the worst of it, the hospital, the recovery, the realizations that both of their lives were irrevocably changed. John had watched Jamie hover on the edge, fighting for life. But he'd come back and John was used to him being there, used to the fact that he was alive and well and reasonably healthy.

He was going to lose.

They all were.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock. Stop."<p>

John's voice had an odd harmonic, hollow. He was several steps behind, a hand pressed against the nearest wall as if for support. His light hair had been turned dark by the rain and plastered to his head, droplets running down his face, beading then falling from his jaw, his ears.

"Just stop," John said. "This– just stop this. We can't– he's not going to let us win."

Sherlock closed the distance between them in two long strides, catching John's face between his cool hands. The doctor's eyes dropped closed for a brief moment, a flicker of relief at the contact, gone almost before it had appeared.

"You know where he is – or at least how to get ahold of him. Call him and tell him to stop, Sherlock."

"John–" But John was shaking his head, not quite dislodging Sherlock's hands.

"He can have me. Tell him that, Sherlock. You said he didn't care about Jamie, that it wasn't about him. Jim can have me in his place, just have him let Jamie go. No one else has to die, not that woman, not him–"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "No, John, absolutely not."

"Why do you get to decide!" John yelled, jerking backwards. Sherlock tightened his hold and John's hands came up to close tight around his wrists, not quite to free himself. "This is about _you_, Sherlock! You and Jim! Jamie's got nothing to do with it, he's only using him to get to you! And he has! He's got you right where he wants you and he's not going to let you win!"

"John. John, listen to me–"

"No, you listen to me! Stop this, Sherlock! Right now, just stop it! You can–"

"I _can't._"

"_Why not?_"

"John, do you trust me? Do you _really_ trust me?" When the doctor started to nod, Sherlock held his head still, forcing John to meet his gaze. "Don't just answer. Think about it."

A deep, sharp inhale made John's nostrils flare, the muscles of his jaw working beneath Sherlock's fingers. His eyes were bright despite the poor lighting, drops of rain glimmering against his cheeks, trembling from the ends of his short hair. He was still a long moment then gave a curt nod, a flicker of defiance in his eyes as if challenging Sherlock to doubt him.

"Good," Sherlock said. "Then trust me now."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was a dark outline stalking the shadows and the rain, long strides pulling him away from John and the girl, Dev, who was huddled in the bricked-over doorway. John cast a final glance at her; she returned it dispassionately, as if he were nothing more than a passing part of the scenery. His hesitation broke as Sherlock pulled out his phone. John caught up to him in a jog, closing a cold hand around the mobile, shaking his head.<p>

"Why?" he asked. "Why would he kill her? How would he even know her?"

"I doubt he did." Sherlock's grey eyes were like thunder, gleaming in the wet night. "He doesn't like to get his hands dirty."

"But why her?" John repeated.

"Because she knew something she wasn't meant to know. Something that found its way to me. Something that inconvenienced Jim."

"What?" John demanded.

"That Richard Mitchell was working for him. He's dead and now so is she."

He stared at Sherlock, looking for some hint that the younger man was joking or lying. But it was Jim, he realized. All of those resources, all of that intelligence – and the emotional stability of a toddler.

He'd lost a toy, so he'd taken one from Sherlock.

"He's setting you up," John said, voice soft but hard-edged as steel.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. "He does think that, doesn't he?" Before John could voice the questions that sprang to his lips, Sherlock pulled away, twisting his wrist deftly to slip from the doctor's hold. "Come with me. We have a call to make."


	83. Chapter 83

The rain had begun to fall harder as they emerged from the maze of alleyways that Sherlock had navigated without any apparent effort. John huddled into his jacket as best he could, ignoring the cold that seeped into his muscles. His discomfort was negligible compared to the lives at stake – and the lives already lost.

He couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for Richard Mitchell, knowing what he did about the dead man, but the homeless girl's murder seemed such a waste. He swallowed his frustration the way he'd learned to do when a patient had succumbed on his operating table.

Sherlock had his phone out already but it was Jamie's that rang. The quiet melody made John angry – it was a stolen sound, something Jim had taken from both of them. He used it flippantly, the same way he used human life.

"Tell me where you are. Give me an address." Sherlock's voice was calm but firm in the midday gloom. John watched the expression on his face shift from concentration to something else – grey eyes widening slightly, lips tugging into something that wasn't quite a frown.

"No, no, no, tell me nothing– No, don't–"

Then his eyes were closed, the phone pressed against his lips, features as dark as the sky that was nearly closed around them.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock made a vague gesture with the phone and John felt a well of anger over helplessness, a cold realization settling into his stomach.

"_Sherlock?_"

"She tried to tell me something about him," his partner said, eyes falling open again.

"You already know who he is!" John protested.

"But she didn't follow the instructions," Sherlock replied, eyes on the phone rather than on John. He was silent a moment but when John started to say something, he shook his head, tiny shimmering droplets dislodging from his the rim of his ball cap. "We need to go."

"Sherlock–"

"There's nothing we can do about this. Not anymore. I am sorry. But the game hasn't stopped, John. We need to go."

* * *

><p>"<em>Whoops!<em>"

The laughter was sudden and silent in the darkness. Jamie sat up, still aching muscles tensing and protesting at the movement, making him wince. He cast a glance around the darkened room – it was impossible to see anything in the pitch blackness, but the door hadn't opened and there was no shift in the air indicating someone else's presence. Jim's voice had an insubstantial quality that meant it was being fed into the room electronically.

"Someone didn't play by the rules! 'Do what I say and no one gets hurt.' So trite, isn't it, James? So _common_. But so useful. And I did say, after all. My game, my rules. Promise me you won't be so _boring_, will you? I hate being disappointed. I _really_ do."

* * *

><p>Eight years working with Sherlock had honed the natural talent for suspicion that growing up with his family had given him.<p>

While the police were undoubtedly celebrating the return of a stolen painting – and the accolades from the media that came with the announcement – Gabriel mistrusted the timing.

They had been keeping an ear open for the location of _Falls of the Reichenbach_ since its disappearance a little over two years ago. They hadn't been involved in its theft. Gabriel would have known about it – or Sherlock would have, which amounted to the same thing. The absence of the painting from the black market auction houses meant that it had probably been in the hands of a private collector.

Probably.

There were people who would pay significant sums of money to own something they couldn't display to anyone but themselves, just for the sheer thrill of knowing they owned it.

None of the other crime lords in the city claimed to know where it was – of course they were all liars and thieves. But Gabriel believed the drug cartels had no information on it; they were loathe to be out of Sherlock's good graces. None of them were in direct competition with Sherlock's company and all of the smart ones recognized the value of a man who controlled large amounts of property with a brother highly placed within the British government.

Jim had also alleged ignorance, but Gabriel had never once trusted anything Jim Moriarty had to say.

Either this was an extraordinarily timed coincidence – not impossible, but unlikely – or it was a deliberate play.

Sherlock would want the information regardless. Gabriel complied everything they had on the newly recovered painting, along with the news articles, and emailed them to his boss before turning to the reports coming in from his lieutenants.

* * *

><p>He'd been so tied to Jamie's phone for the last two days that it felt strange to use his own. But Sherlock wasn't speaking, staring out the rain-streaked window, a gloved fist pressed against his lips, grey eyes distant.<p>

Jumbled reports of an explosion in a high rise were parroting the words "gas leak". John had a dark suspicion that this would be the conclusion drawn by the police – Jim wouldn't be so stupid as to leave his tracks uncovered.

The stillness and the silence in the flat was jarring compared to the racket in his mind. It felt unreal that the flat looked exactly as they'd left it, undisturbed, almost tranquil. Nothing had changed here, not a scrap of paper out of place. As if the past few hours hadn't happened.

He was being steered through the flat, damp shoes leaving impressions on the carpet, finding himself in the bathroom attached to Sherlock's bedroom. Before John could register what was happening, he was being stripped out of his sodden clothing quickly and efficiently, wincing as the air hit cold dampened skin.

"Sherlock–" His jeans, heavy and soaking, hit the tile with a soft _whump_, leaving him aware of how little he was wearing. A moment later it was nothing at all.

He didn't want this right now – _definitely_ not right now. But Sherlock had turned the shower on and guided John toward it without so much as suggestion of joining him. John felt oddly exposed and unnoticed at the same time, although it was impossible to believe Sherlock hadn't noticed everything there was to see.

"I'll get you fresh towels," his partner said and vanished, leaving John standing under the warm spray, blinking droplets from his eyes. Sherlock was back a moment later, hanging a plush towel on the rack before reaching to slide the shower door shut.

"What about you?" John asked.

"The spare bedrooms share a bathroom," Sherlock replied and was gone again.

John stayed still for a long moment, the mixture of relief and disappointment leaving him more tired than he had been. Rousing himself, he washed quickly before simply leaning against the wall, letting the warm water stream over him until the chill that had worked its way to his bones began to ease.

Waiting for the water to run cold proved useless, so he shut the tap off and stepped out into the steam. His clothing was a damp puddle on the floor; he tossed it into the shower and wondered what he'd wear. Sherlock's clothing certainly wouldn't fit him, but there was a thick terrycloth bathrobe hanging from the back of the door – not the silk dressing gown he'd seen before, John noted. He wrapped himself in that and made his way to the living room, where a cup of coffee was pressed into his hands. The sudden heat hit like a wave and he sank onto the sofa, cradling the mug, eyes closed, basking in the aroma.

Sherlock was dressed more casually – which for him meant no suit jacket – a mug of coffee in his own hands. John sipped his drink, closing his eyes, trying to relax into the warmth. He managed a small, mirthless chuckle when he thought about the last time he'd been on this couch. It had been a lot more pleasurable.

After a hesitation that he felt rather than saw, Sherlock sat beside him, just far enough that the physical distance didn't feel like a rejection.

"Will the police be able to track this back to you?" he asked.

"It's possible," Sherlock admitted. "But unlikely."

"Jim _did_ write you name all over Scotland Yard."

"I remember. And he might find it entertaining to make things more difficult for me by having the police on my heels while we try and solve his puzzles. I didn't set the bomb, however, and I know who did. It was my name on the Yard, but it would be his name in all the papers if I wanted it to be."

"_Why_ don't you want it to be?" John demanded. "Just– go public. The police would love it. They'd love you for it."

It was a wry chuckle that escaped Sherlock's lips.

"I doubt that," he said. "What they would love is for both me and Jim to be behind bars. I think Inspector Lestrade would like nothing more than to see me dragged out of here in handcuffs and forced into the back of a police car. But what do you think would happen, John? Even if Jim's name were public, do you imagine any court in the nation would be able to try him?"

John sighed, displacing the steam curling from his coffee mug, watching the faint ripple in the dark liquid.

"I guess not," he admitted.

"Even if they could, he has an entire empire built around him. Empires don't fall when the man at the top is removed. They fall when the foundations crumble."

"What about you?" John asked.

"If I were removed? Gabriel would take over. If he were gone, Charles or Irene would take over. There are enough people in Jim's organization who could do the same – the difference being he doesn't trust them. It weakens his position."

John nodded slowly, still not meeting Sherlock's gaze. Part of him wanted to have doubts – part of him _did_ have doubts, but they were the wrong ones. Or should have been the wrong ones. Jamie's life hung in the balance, but he didn't doubt that Sherlock would do whatever it took to find him.

He wanted to doubt Sherlock himself – but he couldn't. Sherlock had asked if John trusted him. He'd said yes. He almost wished he hadn't really meant it. But it was there, unshakeable, giving him something to hold onto in all of this insanity.

"You think of everything, don't you?"

"If I did, none of us would be here. I may be a genius, but I am still human, and not infallible."

John smiled faintly, no real humour behind it.

"What now?" he asked.

"We wait, as always."

"And while we wait? What's everyone else doing?"

The faint click of porcelain on the coffee table made him look up to see Sherlock setting his mug down and gesturing to him.

"You should sleep, John."

"So should you."

"I've trained myself to go long periods without sleep."

"I was a surgeon in the army, Sherlock. I can do the same."

"You were," Sherlock agreed. "And now you're in need of the rest. Please."

John held out for a moment then relented with a sigh, putting his mug down beside his partner's. It felt disloyal to sleep while Jamie was out there somewhere, who knew in what kind of condition.

_He's still alive_, John told himself. _He is._ He believed that on no evidence, for the sole reason that it was keeping him sane.

"Come here."

With an inward sigh, John shifted so he could stretch out alongside Sherlock, enveloped by long arms. Sherlock smelled clean, of soap and shaving cream, and the warmth of his body chased out the last of the chill that lingered in John's muscles.

It wasn't at all how he'd imagined first sleeping with his partner, but he'd take what he could get right now, and it was good enough to let him close his eyes and surrender to the encroaching darkness.

* * *

><p>A soft knock on the door admitted Cheryl who would have – to anyone else – appeared perfectly ordinary, but Gabriel could see the hints of fatigue hidden behind her composed expression. No hint of what she might have been doing in her clothing or bearing, but she held up a small white box, a little smaller than a shoe box, as if presenting him with something.<p>

"What's that?" Gabriel asked as she crossed his office and deposited it on his desk.

"Richard. I thought you might want it."

Gabriel resisted the urge to pull back but the flicker in her eyes told him she'd caught it. He drew a deep breath; like her, he was low on sleep but used to it. His aching leg probably meant he couldn't go long without another nap, but it would have to wait awhile longer.

"Thanks," he said.

"It's just a box with some ashes, Gabe. Don't let it be anything else."

He gave her a wry smile, little more than a curl of the corners of his lips.

"I'll try," he promised.

"I need some rest. I'm going to have some work to do soon. You look like you could use a break, too."

"I'll take one soon."

"Be sure you do."

He nodded again, pushing the box aside, trying not to think too much about it. Just a box with some ashes.

"Cheryl?" he said, giving her pause at the door. "Be careful."

"I will be," she replied with a smile. "Believe me, with him, I always am."


	84. Chapter 84

He was dreaming of telegraphs, a soft arrhythmic tapping that resolved itself into the sound of fingers on a keyboard when he drifted back into consciousness. John kept his eyes closed, dimly aware of the brief pause in the quiet clacking that signalled Sherlock knew he'd woken up.

He blinked his eyes open finding himself on Sherlock's couch – alone. Sherlock had tucked a blanket around him and taken the chair next to John's head, legs propped on the coffee table, absorbed with his laptop. A brief flicker of his grey eyes served as an acknowledgement – not without warmth – before Sherlock's concentration went back to the screen.

"The next pip?" John sighed.

"No," Sherlock murmured. With a shake of his head, he dislodged his focus again to look up. "I would have woken you."

"What then?"

"A painting stolen from the Cecil Higgins Gallery in Bedford was just recovered."

John felt the frown pulling at his muscles.

"Is that important?"

"I don't know, but I won't discount the possibility just yet. The painting was stolen over two years ago. None of my sources nor any of the expected parties knew where it was."

"You think it was Jim."

"Either Jim had it or he persuaded whoever did to let it be recovered at this precise moment. There's a telling lack of discussion in the news about the suspects involved with the theft – which means either the police don't know or someone is exerting quite a lot influence to keep names from the press."

John sat up slowly, feeling a warning light-headedness that came from dehydration and hunger.

"You need to eat something," Sherlock said, attention returning to the laptop balanced on his thighs. "There's plenty of food in the kitchen."

"What about you?"

"I'm fine," his partner murmured.

"When was the last time you ate anything?"

"Dinner with you."

"Then you're not fine!" John snapped and Sherlock looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "That was two days ago, Sherlock!"

"Yes, I know. I can go some time without eating."

"No," John retorted. "You can't just– I don't know, 'train' yourself to do that! You can't just decide that your body doesn't need the things that keep it alive! They aren't optional!"

The startled expression on his partner's face made him relent somewhat, drawing a deep breath and curling his fingers into fists, displacing the desire to keep yelling. He could feel the stress building beneath the surface, trying to break out. It Sherlock's refusal to eat wasn't the real problem – although John's own lack of predictable meals in the past two days wasn't helping.

"All right," Sherlock said slowly, looking stunned – either at the idea that eating was necessary or at the outburst, John couldn't tell.

"No, don't," John said as his partner moved to put his laptop aside. "I don't want beans on toast and we don't have time for coq au vin. You do," he waved a hand vaguely, "whatever crime boss stuff you need to do. I'll cook."

Without awaiting a reply, he stalked into the kitchen and leaned against a counter out of sight, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. A few deep breaths helped displace the worst of the anxiety. He tried to tell himself this was no different than a recovery mission in Afghanistan – but it was. Whatever else the Taliban had been, they weren't Jim. They hadn't played games like this – games John never could have won if he'd been on his own.

He'd thought to make something simple but ended up cooking an entire meal if only to distract himself. Sherlock took a plate with a murmured thank you and they ate in silence, Jamie's phone on the coffee table between them like a growing barrier.

* * *

><p>When it rang, John felt something akin to relief immediately followed by guilt. He swallowed both, steeling himself, as Sherlock held the screen toward him.<p>

"The Thames," John said.

"The south bank," Sherlock agreed. "Somewhere between Waterloo and Southwark bridges."

"What's there?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock murmured, scrolling through his own phone as John took Jamie's, trying to find any details in the tiny photograph that might be important. "But it's low tide and we have some daylight left. Let's go."

* * *

><p>The rain had given way to a darkening gloom that thickened even more as the sun made its hidden way to the horizon. It was still light enough to see as they made their cautious way toward the river, stepping carefully on slick rocks. Sherlock had provided them each with a torch for which John was glad. It would be difficult to find whatever they were looking for in the low lighting.<p>

Unless, of course, Jim had left them a body. Knowing how the mad man operated, John wouldn't have been surprised.

"I don't see anything," he said, stating the obvious but feeling better for having the words spoken out loud. Sherlock made a vague acknowledgement, attention split between the ground and the image on Jamie's phone.

"We're still not in precisely the right place."

"How would we know?" John sighed.

"Our view should line up with the photograph."

He pursed his lips and said nothing, following Sherlock instead as the younger man picked a deliberate path toward the distant water. The bank was scattered with litter left behind when the tide had gone, leaving him wondering darkly about the lives Jim treated the same disinterest.

They hadn't yet received another call, and John tried not to think about it. Who was going to be on the other end of the line? How long did they have?

The news reports were still full of the supposed gas leak.

He didn't want to add another tragedy to the list.

"This is approximately the right place," Sherlock said, dislodging John from his thoughts. A thin sliver of white light was skittering over the ground, illuminating rocks and rubbish. In the twilight, Sherlock was little more than a shadow when his back was to John – dark hair, dark coat, dark clothing. Only when he turned, glancing over his shoulder, did the illusion vanish into pale hints of skin and eyes.

With an inward sigh, John flicked on his torch. He swallowed on the observation that it would be easier if they knew what they were looking for. The path of his torch didn't find any bodies, which was something of a relief.

The feeling was tempered by the sensation of time slipping away. The tide was slowly on its way back in, ready to wash away the clue if they didn't find it before the darkness swallowed them completely.

John refocused, following the circle of light from his torch as it revealed barren ground. The clamour in his mind was hard to ignore but he kept quiet, listening to the sound of his breathing and Sherlock's, the crunch of their shoes on the hard, uneven bank.

He was alerted by the change in his partner's stance, the sudden steadiness of the torch beam. There was something caught between the rocks, a small white rectangle whose smooth lines were in contrast to the grimy, crumpled litter. Sherlock bent down and tugged it free, turning it over.

"A photo?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, the thin circle of light from his torch reflecting off the glossy surface. The face that smiled back at them was young, the pose immediately recognizable in its formality – this was an old photograph despite the fact that the print itself was new. The sepia tone had been changed to black-and-white, but John had been in the military long enough to know the style from the Second World War.

"Is that a British military uniform?" Sherlock asked.

"I can't tell," John said. Sherlock flipped the photograph over; someone had written a name at the bottom in tight, neat cursive.

_Harold J. Miller_

"Does the name mean anything to you?"

"Not a thing," John replied. Sherlock was silent for another moment, studying the photograph as if nothing else existed. John wondered what sort of details he picked up, if his skill at reading people would extend to posed photographs from over half a century ago.

Sherlock swung his torch up, light fading into the darkness before the beam touched the water's edge. He then cast a circle of light around himself, turning slowly, before letting the illumination skitter across the rocks towards the car.

"We have what we came for. Let's go."

* * *

><p>"Shouldn't we have heard by now?" John asked.<p>

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, eyes not leaving his laptop. They were back where they'd started from over an hour ago, and had almost instinctively taken up the same places: Sherlock in the chair, John on the couch.

John leaned forward, fingers interlaced and pressed against his lips, watching Sherlock intently. It took a moment for the strength of his gaze to break through but when it did, his partner looked up, grey eyes shadowed.

"We need to figure out who Harold Miller is – or more likely was, given the apparent age of this photograph."

"Call Mycroft," John said. "I have friends in the army, let me call them."

"No," Sherlock answered, shaking his head and putting the laptop aside so he could arch his back in a stretch. "We've had no communication from Jim – the message seems clear. We may have run out of lifelines."

"So what do we do?"

"Research," Sherlock replied. "And two minds are better than one – especially if one of them is mine. Here."

He put the laptop on the coffee table and turned it toward John.

"What about you?"

"I'll work in the office."

He wasn't about to be left alone, so after making them each a cup of tea, John installed himself in the office as well, clearing off part of the desk without asking permission. This earned him a cocked eyebrow but no comments and he returned the look with his best captain's glare. Sherlock matched him for a moment then went back to work and John turned to his.

He grew used to the flurries of movement interspersed with longer moments of silence in which Sherlock was reading, eyes intent on the screen, or thinking, eyes closed, holding himself utterly still. There was no pattern to the timing but it became routine, so much so that it took several minutes to realize that something had changed.

John glanced up the moment that he realized Sherlock's breathing had slowed to see his partner's head tipped back as far as the cushioning on the leather chair would allow it, eyes closed, expression relaxed. His brain refused to process the image at first, and he fought panic because Sherlock needed to _work_. John couldn't do this alone.

His medical training kicked in almost immediately, bolstered by the logical part of his mind. Sherlock hadn't slept in two days. John had – albeit not as much as he was used to. A few hours wouldn't hurt. Eight hours would be closer to what Sherlock needed, but John doubted he'd let himself sleep that long.

The chair was hardly ideal, but the doctor suspected that if woken, Sherlock would refuse to return to sleep. Quietly, John went into the living room to fetch the blanket he'd been using. He tucked it around Sherlock carefully, not wanting to disturb him, and retreated to the living room again with the laptop and settled down to work.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stirred himself with a grimace at the small warning pangs along his neck. That he was in his desk chair surprised him. He'd never fallen asleep there before; he'd never fallen asleep while working before. Sleep was scheduled around the rest of his life and it alarmed him that he'd succumbed to it so unintentionally.<p>

The blanket John had settled over him made the situation seem even more incongruous. Sherlock flipped it aside and stood, checking the time. Just over three hours. Mindful of his stiff muscles and the unavoidable knowledge that they were working on an unknown timeline, he took a moment to set aside the effects of sleep and collect himself before heading into the living room, where the light and the faint sounds of movement indicated that John was still awake.

The doctor was at the centre of a storm of papers – single sheets with bits of information jotted on them, small stacks bundled together, a few pieces crumpled and pitched aside. There seemed to be some order in the chaos, some system John had devised.

"I found out who he was," the doctor said by way of greeting, raising his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. "You were right about the painting, I think."

"How so?" Sherlock asked, moving around the ring of notes that surrounded his partner to perch in his chair. A cup of coffee would have been welcome, but John's information was more valuable.

"He was an RAF pilot in World War Two. He went missing during a mission – they found his plane a few weeks later. He'd gone down over Switzerland, near a little town called Meiringen. Do you know what's there?"

Sherlock nodded but John continued anyway, as though he needed to say it.

"Reichenbach Falls."


	85. Chapter 85

It was easy to move through the press of bodies, registering each appraising look he received and returning just enough of them so as not to appear too focused, all the while letting his eyes scan the faces illuminated by alternating coloured lights and shadows until he found the right one.

Charles kept his attention split between his target and the crowd around him, winding a path to the bar. Casually, apparently by accident, he let their eyes meet, let his lips twitch into a brief smile – an invitation or a challenge, whatever the other man preferred.

He leaned against the scratched and ring-stained bar and waited. A drink would help smooth things along and, in a place like this, he never had to buy his own.

* * *

><p>Sherlock could remember no other night which had crept by with such frustrating slowness.<p>

There was no question that this puzzle had something to do with the recently recovered painting and with some research he had turned up where it was being held before it was returned to the gallery in Bedford. He suspected he could see the masterpiece if he needed to – he had a few members of the Met also drawing pay from his organization – but he hoped it wouldn't be necessary.

He studied the photographs of the painting in detail, as well as the more recent photographs of the falls, which John had found online.

The doctor's research was impressive, but the information it contained revealed little more than the facts John had presented him with: Lieutenant Harold Miller, aged twenty-three in 1942, had died when his plane had crashed near Meiringen.

Having processed what little there was, he had nothing to do but pace the flat with his eyes closed and palms pressed together, trying to think. He could feel John's gaze on him through it all, heavy and accusatory, as if the delay were Sherlock's fault, as if he could somehow speed up Jim's next move.

The sky lightened in the east, the pre-dawn greyness giving way to the pinks and oranges of sunrise, and the faint hum of traffic several stories below picked up as the city rose and began its new working week.

At eight precisely, Jamie's phone rang, the sound they had both been waiting for surprising each of them as the artificial music cut through the silence.

"Where is that?" John demanded, standing at Sherlock's elbow, the heat from his body sinking into Sherlock's skin. A snapshot of gently curving arch, the columns and ceiling done in vibrant golds and blues, almost as if the sun was rising within the building itself.

"St. Paul's Cathedral. If we leave now, it should be open by the time we arrive."

* * *

><p>Several hours sleep on the couch in his office had done Gabriel some good, even if his leg felt a bit stiff. He rose and freshened up before changing into the clothing Michael had been despatched to pick up the night before.<p>

There were a number of text messages and emails awaiting him, most of which were dealt with simply by reading them. He replied to those that required it, and was relieved there was nothing from Sherlock. His boss' messages were set to wake him but he'd needed the rest.

Michael brought in tea and a light breakfast for each of them, which they shared at the coffee table as Gabriel went over what his secretary needed to know and was brought up to speed on anything he'd missed while sleeping.

"Are we ready for the inspector?" Gabriel asked when Michael had finished his report.

"I have people waiting to bring him in," the secretary confirmed. "His current surveillance is minimal, nothing that can't be dealt with."

"Good. Have him picked up. It's time he met the good guys."

* * *

><p>The early crowd of tourists had already arrived, and John felt conspicuous queuing with the chatting groups. Their excitement and their laughter seemed out of place to him. The two of them were silent, Sherlock seemed somehow weightless, as if he had nothing else to do with his time but stand in the line and pay their entry fee.<p>

Once free of the queue, Sherlock slipped his hand into John's. The sudden contact – so casual and so unexpected – was shocking enough that he nearly pulled away, tensing his arm to keep his hand where it was. Outwardly it looked like nothing more than a display of affection – _probably not the best place for it_, John thought darkly – but Sherlock was guiding him without words away from the tourists drifting into the main areas, acting as though he were absorbed by his surroundings.

They found what they were looking for on a bulletin board of community announcements and messages.

"How did you know?" John hissed.

"Had to be somewhere discreet," Sherlock murmured in reply as he plucked the photograph from amidst the notices and advertisements. "Someone would have taken it otherwise."

The smiling woman in the photograph looked young, her brown hair tied back from her head with a green bandana, the background behind her also green but blurred, mixed with muted browns.

On the back, in the same neat cursive script, was the name _Jennifer Watson_.

John looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, bright and dark with suspicion.

"Harold Miller," Sherlock said. "And Jennifer Watson. Take the first and the last and you have Harold Watson."

"Har–" John began to repeat then cut himself off. "Harry Watson. Jesus."

* * *

><p>The Detective Inspector appeared younger than in his photographs, features still untouched by the weights and worries Gabriel was now used to seeing in DI Lestrade.<p>

Or perhaps he was just better at hiding them. There was tension in the muscles of his face, a slight tightening around his eyes and lips that hinted at displeasure, his expression approaching unreadable but falling just short. Gabriel had mastered that look as a means of survival while growing up and had learned how to see through it under the guidance of a genius.

"Inspector Dimmock," he greeted without rising, and there was a flash of irritation and distaste in the detective's eyes. "Please, come in." A smooth gesture with an open palm led the DI to settle reluctantly into the chair opposite his desk.

* * *

><p>This had to be a bloody joke.<p>

He held onto the anger to smother the fear – it wasn't the first time he'd been rounded up unceremoniously, but he still hated it. Every day was a tightrope walk of uncertainty, and even when he lay down at night to the familiar sounds of his home settling around him, he couldn't quite let go of it. They'd never had the audacity to come into his house – in front of his wife and kids – but a phone call could force him up and out of what he'd once considered a safe haven.

As it had this morning.

And now they were asking him to take orders from a bloody _kid_?

The man behind the desk was barely twenty-five if Dimmock was any judge, some jumped up lackey who had been pressed into an expensive suit and given an expensive haircut that did nothing to hide his age.

_Cocky little bastard, too_, the DI thought, repressing a scowl. Didn't even get up when he came in, only extended a hand to gesture at one of the open chairs facing the desk as if there was no question Dimmock would obey the unspoken command.

He did. They both knew he would.

He had no choice.

"Right about the age," the younger man said. "Wrong about everything else. There is _always_ a choice."

* * *

><p>Dimmock's startled reaction was augmented by Michael's perfectly timed appearance.<p>

"Ah, Michael, tea. Thank you," Gabriel said as if the delivery was unexpected. The DI tried to glare in two directions at once, unwilling to take his eyes from Gabriel but drawn to the movement as Michael set a cup and saucer down for him. One sugar, no milk – precisely the way Dimmock took it. A flicker of dark eyes told Gabriel the detective hadn't missed that his own tea had been prepared differently.

Michael vanished again, the door clicking shut softly behind him. Gabriel sipped his tea, the warmth and familiar taste both welcome. Dimmock glared at him again, suspicion suppressing fear.

"Please," Gabriel repeated, nodding at the tea. Visibly reluctant but also unwilling to forego his manners, Dimmock picked up the cup with bad grace and sipped it perfunctorily.

"Why am I here?" he demanded after he set down his cup, the barest minimum of social obligation now met. "What right do you have to drag me out at this bloody hour? I've got a family. Kids who need me."

"Yes," Gabriel said, timing the word with the faint clink of china on china when he put his own cup back in its saucer. "I know."

Before the anger and fear had time to coalesce into rage, Gabriel leaned forward slightly, interlacing his fingers, and held the DI's gaze.

"Detective Inspector Dimmock, I brought you here to give you a choice."

* * *

><p><em>Pick up, pick up, pick up<em>, John repeated like a mantra, willing the ringing on the other end. The sudden click made him weak – for a moment he thought he'd reached his sister's voicemail.

"John?" she asked and the realization that it was _her_ had him curling a hand hard around Sherlock's arm as relief hit him like a wave.

"Harry," he managed. "Thank God. Are you all right?"

There was a puzzled pause on the other end of the line.

"Of course I am," she replied. "Why wouldn't I be?"

* * *

><p>In the lift on the way back down, Dimmock tried not to seethe. There was a camera visible where the wall met the ceiling and although he had no doubt Mitchell wasn't the one watching, <em>someone<em> was.

_That fucking bastard_, he thought, sucking in a deep breath and trying to keep a tight rein on his thoughts. Someone Mitchell's age shouldn't have been able to read him like that – but of course, that was easy enough to do when you knew what buttons to push. He'd done it countless times in interrogation. A number of suspects had even tried it on him, to their ultimate disappointment.

_No one_ had ever worked him like Mitchell had.

He knew everything. Every last little detail.

And he didn't work for Jim Moriarty.

_Sherlock Holmes._

Now there was a name Dimmock knew well – right now, working at the Yard, it would have been impossible not to.

* * *

><p>"I doubt you intended it," Mitchell said. "What made you do it?"<p>

The question was asked casually, as if seeking an opinion on the weather. No matter how hard he listened, he couldn't pick up the threat beneath the tone – but it was there. He may not have been able to hear it, but he could feel it in the air around him, pressing down on him like an invisible weight.

* * *

><p><em>What else could I have done?<em> he asked himself – as he had asked himself for six years now, the question always hovering at the back of his mind.

The answer was obvious: made the arrest – as messy as it would have been – or, failing that, turned himself in.

But he hadn't done either of those things. Standing over a suspect who had been killing children, the scum's own gun turned on him, it had all been so clear. It was all still so clear. They could have dragged him through a trial, and he'd have gone to prison, the taxes of people like Dimmock himself paying for an attorney and for the proceedings. He'd have rotted in a cell for the rest of his life – but he would have _had_ a life.

Unlike the kids he'd put in the ground.

Heather had been a month old when Dimmock had finally caught the bastard.

Turning himself in after the gun went off rather than disposing of it would have put him in a cell of his own. Would have taken away his life, and ruptured those of his wife and infant daughter.

He hadn't regretted it in the moment that it had happened.

Too bad for him that the killer he'd worked for over six months to catch had been employed by Jim Moriarty.

* * *

><p>"He'll kill me."<p>

"No, he won't," Mitchell replied. The smug little git never changed his tone. Always so calm and assured, but with a hint of iron underneath.

This wasn't a game.

But Dimmock had learned that years ago.

"Therein lies your problem," Mitchell continued. "He won't kill _you_ – not while he has Anne and Heather and Michael to choose from."

He was on his feet before he knew it, hands curled around the edges of Mitchell's desk, rage burning so hot he could feel it in his skin. Mitchell only looked up – he'd never once stood, not even when Dimmock had been dismissed – expression so neutral it was impossible to read anything in it.

"Four and six," Mitchell said. "It will be a few years still until they can really imagine their father is capable of doing something wrong. Sit _down_, Detective Inspector."

And god help him, he did, as if he were taking orders from a superior officer.

"If you _ever_ threaten my kids again–"

"Have I done that?" Mitchell asked and there – _there_ was that infuriating small smile, the one that did nothing to break the mask, but suggested there was a world of possibilities that Dimmock could never even hope to understand.

"Besides, you won't stop working for him."

"What?" Dimmock spat. "You just said–"

"You'll be working for us, yes," Mitchell agreed. "You've met me, and you will meet only one other person. Mister Moriarty never even has to know."

* * *

><p>Moriarty <em>would <em>kill him.

Or he'd drown under the weight of it all. He could already feel it – the chains he'd worn for six years getting tighter, squeezing, making it so hard to breathe. Moriarty had found him despite the fact that no one had seen what happened. No one had been there.

And now Mitchell had found out about all of that.

He wanted to lean against the lift wall but the doors slid open, revealing the foyer beyond with the security and reception desk in full view and a handful of well-attired people criss-crossing the tiled floor.

* * *

><p>"Detective Inspector?"<p>

He'd nearly made out, hand on the door handle, before Mitchell stopped him. The unreadable expression was almost gone, his young face serious, not quite dark.

"You made that choice six years ago for the children who had been killed and to save some that may otherwise have died."

There was a brief silence and he felt something was expected of him. All he gave up was a brief nod.

"Then let me suggest that by not doing anything stupid, you will very likely save the lives of a least two more."

* * *

><p>Dominique greeted her at the door, dressed but looking tussled, as though he'd only just woken up.<p>

"You said this was important?" Veronique asked, cocking an eyebrow. Her twin gave her a slight smile in return, dark eyes dancing with restrained, knowing mischief. She'd learned to recognize that look when they'd been small children. He was up to something.

"Dom–" she began, but he cut her off.

"I did," he agreed. "There's someone here to see you."

He pushed the door open the rest of the way, revealing the apartment to her, and, with some effort, Veronique managed to swallow a curse when she saw Chauvière sitting on her brother's couch.


	86. Chapter 86

He had been steered toward some café and pushed gently into a chair unaware of how far they'd gone. John suspected that if he raised his head, he'd be able to see the cathedral in the near distance, but it was so much easier to keep his eyes closed and his head bowed. The faint pressure of his fingers against his forehead and temples was somehow grounding but the slow, steady breaths he was forcing on himself were deceptive. He felt as though his tenuous hold might sever at any moment.

_Get it together, Watson_, he told himself, echoing the tones of his first drill sergeant. The memory of the voice wasn't strong enough, didn't last long enough, and he felt himself spinning again, trying to find some steadiness, but there was nothing he could hold on to.

A gloved hand closed over one of his, prying it from covering his face, and squeezing tightly. John looked up, blinking in the morning sunlight that half-obscured, half-illuminated Sherlock.

When the brilliance cleared, he could see Sherlock watching him seriously, a take away cup in his other hand, soft curls of steam escaping through the narrow opening of the plastic lid.

"They're all fine," Sherlock said, pressing the cup into John's hand. The heat was shocking, setting the nerves in his fingertips on fire until they began to adjust. He nodded automatically – to what, he wasn't really sure – while staring at the drink.

A sip revealed it was tea – still too hot to drink and that oddly tasteless sensation he'd always associated with café drinks served in insulated paper cups. He took another ginger sip anyway, just to help chase away the shakiness.

"Harry's at work," Sherlock continued, sinking into the chair next to him. "Clara is on the way to her job. Your mother is at home. I've increased their surveillance. They won't be in any danger."

_Just like Jamie wasn't?_ John thought, then scowled to himself. Jamie wouldn't have been – if Sherlock had even suspected Jim might go after him.

He wanted suddenly to leave. He couldn't be here amongst the crowds of people living out their daily lives – the tourists with their cameras and their smiles, the commuters intent on their destinations or distracted by phone calls, the homeless wrapped in old clothing and invisibility.

It made him think of Crissy, who had died because she'd spoken to Sherlock, and the woman on the phone, who'd died because she'd spoken of Jim.

Now there was someone else waiting for them – or waiting to die.

And Jamie.

"I want to go," John said dully. "Where's the car?"

* * *

><p>This was becoming difficult.<p>

Jim's unpredictability was one thing – Sherlock had grown used to it over the course of their acquaintance, had even come to expect it as a part of his life. He'd made allowances for it, adapted to it, had learned all the little telltale signs that indicated when the people closest to him needed more protection.

He'd become complacent.

The thought shocked him. He hadn't considered it like that before, but he couldn't turn away from the truth. His life before John had been simple – as simple as it could be for a man like him. Everything had fit into neat categories.

John didn't.

He never would.

They were fast running out of time, but it wasn't Jamie's time – or that of their unknown present victim – he was concerned about.

Jim was distracted, which was necessary. But the faint smudges beneath John's eyes ended in new, thin lines creasing his skin, pinning the worn fatigue to his features. This was never the distraction Sherlock would have chosen.

Wishful thinking had always been for fools and layabouts, however; the situation wasn't about to change no matter how much he would have preferred it. The people relying on him now wouldn't be satisfied by a desire for things to have played out differently. John was beside him and his work was in front of him, so he let his partner rest and turned toward unravelling the mystery that was Jennifer Watson.

* * *

><p>He awoke too alert to be drugged, fighting a moment's disorientation at having slept again. In this place – wherever it was – there wasn't much else to do. Stretching and the few physical exercises he could do in the cramped space had helped ease the aches in his muscles, but letting his mind roam always led him down the darkest paths.<p>

Thinking of Tricia was the worst. Jamie could tell by the scratch of stubble against his meagre pillow that it had been three days, maybe four, since he'd last shaved. That meant plenty of time for Tricia to have texted or emailed and to not have heard back. It wasn't uncommon that he went several days waiting for her replies, but his life had a steady routine now. She'd wonder what was happening.

Unless John had already told her. He almost hoped not – she didn't need the extra worries.

Jamie shelved those thoughts and paid attention to what his senses were telling him. Behind closed eyes, it still seemed too dark for his cell to have any light. He could hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing, smell nothing but his stale clothing, but some ancestral sense was kicking in again the way it had when he'd first woken up tied to the chair with Jim Moriarty watching him in the darkness.

"Sleeping well?" a polished Irish drawl asked, and he tensed against the surprise, realizing belatedly that his hands were bound again, this time by handcuffs. With nothing to lose, he gave them an experimental tug, hearing a corresponding clanking from the frame of the cot.

"Oh yes, sorry about those," Jim said in a tone that contained neither apology or empathy. "Precautions, you know. I can't just pop in and say hello, it seems." There was a sigh in the darkness and Jamie opened his eyes. It wasn't really worth the effort. "That's the price one pays for success, I suppose. Can't be too careful."

There was a faint sound of fabric on fabric as though Jim were shifting position.

"He really is doing rather well," the madman continued, a soft chuckle almost softening his words. "Thought you might like to know. Three out of three so far – and well into the fourth.

"Of course, I'm not surprised. Not _really_. I always knew he'd do well, once I got him to come out and play. _That's_ always been a problem though, hasn't it? Oh, Sherlock, so _responsible_ and _cautious_. Never has any _fun._

"And you know what they say about all work and no play."

There was a brief, sudden light in the darkness. In the moment before Jamie shut his eyes against the unexpected glare, he had the impression of pale skin, of dark clothing, a halo of blue. He cursed himself for having fallen for such an obvious trap – Jim would have had his eyes closed, of course.

When the blackness flowed back in, he was left blinking blazing blue spots from his disrupted vision.

"I really ought to thank John Watson, you know. It's never been this easy before. I mean, there's always been levers, but the problem with Sherlock is that if you pull the wrong one it all comes crashing down around you." There was another sigh, almost heartfelt. "The Frenchman wasn't so bad, really. Man after my own heart – because he hasn't got one either. The puppy's got weaknesses too, but he _knows_ what they are. Knows that they are."

The nicknames were jarring – he could guess who the Frenchman was without any difficulty, but the puppy could have been anyone. It wasn't important, not to him, so he focused on Jim's words instead.

"Then along came John," Jim said in a singsong voice, like he was reading from a nursery rhyme. "A little doctor with a bad shoulder and a stupid sister – and you. I haven't had this much fun in _ages_! So I should thank him. I really should."

There was a sudden rush of sound and the shock of warm breath on his face, Jim so close Jamie could almost taste the words as they were spoken.

"But he took what was _mine_," he snarled in the darkness. "Sherlock and I belong together. I've been patient, James, oh_ so_ patient. But I'm done waiting. I'll take what I want and if I can't – _I will burn the heart of out of him._"

Jamie held himself as still as he could, feeling the bright aggression of a feral grin he couldn't see. Then there was a movement in the air and a feeling of relief before Jim was gone again.

"But why should you suffer?" Jim asked, voice coming from the direction of the door. "You've done _very well_. I'm _very_ proud, you know. Couldn't have done it without you. And it must be so _dull_ in here. Why don't we give you a little prize? I'll have Sebastian see to it."

Jamie had just enough presence of mind to screw his eyes shut and press his face into the pillow before Jim threw the door open and let in the blinding light.

* * *

><p>He was sure he hadn't dozed off, but when John opened his eyes, the shadowed, private light and the smooth hum of the engine were at odds with the sunlight and rumbling he'd expected. It took a moment for him to remember where he was and why he was there, for his mind to stop trying to superimpose a camouflaged, sandy uniform over Sherlock's dark coat and trousers.<p>

Grey eyes flickered his way; John got the impression it was an acknowledgement rather than registering that he was awake. His tea was being extended toward him and John glanced down at his hands in surprise before taking it.

He couldn't have been out long – the cup was still radiating some heat and the drink was just this side of being too cold when he sipped it. The temperature difference did nothing for the taste, however, and John put it aside with an inward sigh.

"Find anything?" he asked, wishing he could swallow the question, take away the need to even ask it. If Sherlock noted his reluctance he didn't let it affect his answer.

"Jennifer Watson, formerly of Newcastle, born in 1968, died in the summer of 1994 in a hiking accident in Switzerland."

"Let me guess. Near Meiringen." John felt curiously calm as he spoke – there was a bubbling anger somewhere deep down, but it seemed more like it belonged to someone else and he was only hearing about it, rather than experiencing it.

"Yes. 'Near' being the most specific location I've been able to determine so far. She was caught in bad weather–"

"I don't want the details," John interjected. "We know why he's doing this. It all goes back to that bloody painting. But why?"

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows, giving his head a small shake, and John was seized by the sudden impulse to throw himself across the space that separated them. He wanted to stop Sherlock's words, to silence that smooth baritone voice, to bruise those ridiculously sensual lips. He wanted surprise – no, _shock_ from Sherlock, wanted him to feel pinned and trapped. To give up that control he said he didn't always want – to wrest it from him forcibly until Sherlock broke down and gave in and let John take charge.

Instead, he smoothed his palms along his thighs, using the press into the muscles to refocus.

The fleeting flicker of expression in Sherlock's eyes told John the moment hadn't gone unnoticed.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied. "We have to go back to the flat and look at the photographs. The answer's in there."

* * *

><p>His reward was another tiny room, but this one lit and furnished with more than a cot and a bucket. Jamie's eyes hadn't adjusted in time to see the man who'd pulled the hood from his face before vanishing behind the snap of a heavy door closing. He stood for a few minutes, wincing and blinking, until the glare resolved itself into his surroundings.<p>

There was no window, of course – but there was a light switch on the wall that could control the overhead light. The room wasn't much bigger than the other cell, but there was a small bathroom, which he explored first.

No razor and no mirror. Nothing he could fashion into a weapon. Of course, Jim would know better and from the way he spoke of the mysterious Sebastian, it seemed that his captor's aide had some military training.

But there was a shower, complete with shampoo, soap, and a fresh set of towels. He had to resort to his own stale clothing after he'd washed, but at least he felt cleaner.

In the main room, if it could be called that, there was a couch long enough for him to stretch out on and a coffee table holding a covered plastic tray and a dog-eared book. Jamie rationed his meal again and ate a small portion while reading. He thought he could remember having read Jane Austen once, years ago, in school. It wasn't something he'd have chosen for himself and it wasn't very good – the heroine struck him as self-centred twat – but it was better than staring at the walls.

It was certainly better than the darkness and isolation of the other cell.

If this was his reward, he wondered what would happen if Sherlock did something that merited punishment.

* * *

><p>"Is anybody there?"<p>

"Jesus it's a kid." The words had left John's mouth before he'd even thought them, the heavy drop of his stomach matching the widening of Sherlock's eyes. The quavering voice on the other end of the line sounded unbelievably young – no more than five or six.

David's age, John realized with a cold, shuddering shock.

"Yes, I'm here," Sherlock replied, the taut set of his mouth belying the steady calm of his voice.

"He says you have– sixty minutes."


	87. Chapter 87

They'd lost a quarter of their remaining hour getting back to the flat, but after a curt instruction to Gerald, Sherlock immersed himself in study, using both his phone and Jamie's. He worked in silence, barely looking up when Gerald held the door open for them. John held his tongue with no small amount of effort, half a step behind Sherlock as the younger man unlocked his flat and disabled the security system without so much as a glance.

At loose ends, John made them each a cup of tea. He set Sherlock's on the coffee table where it sat untouched, growing cold as he paced the living room in slow strides, sipping his drink without tasting it. Sherlock had his laptop open now, and was still using both phones, as well as leafing through the written notes John had scrawled.

John was despatched a few times to deliver printed sheets from the office, which Sherlock took without breaking his concentration.

"Tell me what I can do," he insisted.

"You can be quiet," Sherlock replied.

"Let me help." When he went unanswered, John slumped into a chair, restraining his fingers from tapping the cup impatiently. He wanted Sherlock to talk to him, to explain what was going on, what he was looking for, what he was thinking, but there was a young child out there somewhere who was more desperate than John.

He tried to take comfort in the fact that it hadn't been David's voice, but it reminded him that some other unknown parents were probably frantic right now. The weight in his stomach was suddenly cold and the tea no longer palatable. The quiet clink of the cup as he set it aside masked his nearly silent sigh and John tried unsuccessfully to relax in his chair. .

John felt his jaw clench as he swallowed on a snarl. The faint ticking of his watch had eaten away fifteen more minutes. Half the time gone, a mere thirty minutes remaining. Sherlock's grey eyes were flickering so fast over the information John wondered if he was absorbing anything at all, if mounting panic was distracting him as well.

"Sherlock–?" He hadn't meant to speak and bit back the rest of the sentence, berating himself for breaking the tense concentration.

"It wasn't Harry," Sherlock said, words quick, clipped. "Or anyone in your family. That was incidental."

"Then what?" John asked.

"I don't know. Two deaths related only by an accident of geography and a recovered painting. No one died in that operation."

"You said the others were about timing."

"Yes, but how? Half a century apart, no connection other than their location."

"What if Miller and Watson were related? Distantly, I mean."

Sherlock shook his head, a brief, aborted motion.

"Pointless," he said and John pursed his lips, swallowing an angry retort. "Timing, not relationships."

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, palms pressed together in front of his face as he began pacing, an all too familiar distance in his eyes that told John his presence was barely registered anymore.

Curling his hands into fists, John tracked Sherlock's movements with his eyes, as if watching could give him the answers. Time seemed distorted – there wasn't enough of it, the seconds slipping away even as he tried to hold onto them, but Sherlock had been quiet for too long. Silently, John willed him to think faster. There was guilt with each breath – how many more did Jim's latest victim have left?

Jim wouldn't hesitate to kill a child.

_Come on_, John thought, the moment before Sherlock stopped abruptly and spun on his heels to face him again.

"A fake."

"What?" John demanded.

"A fake. The painting. It's a fake."

"What? Why?"

"Why would Jim give up something like this, even now? Not to get me to play his game – he's already done that. No need to use the real painting. Why surrender the real thing when a fake could do the job, leaving him with the original that could then be sold on the black market? So much more money in that."

John had the distinct impression Sherlock was speaking from experience; he made himself nod rather than voice the accusation. Sherlock was already back in front of the laptop, eyes gleaming triumphantly, fingers clattering over the keyboard.

"Harry's name was a distraction," he murmured, gaze never leaving the screen. "But why the river and the cathedral?"

"You said timing," John snapped, earning a preoccupied nod.

"Evening, morning," Sherlock murmured. "But to what–"

The premature sound of Jamie's phone ringing cut him off, and both of them snapped their gaze to it. Sherlock began to move and stopped, John's heart clenching at the aborted motion, a tight feeling working its way from his lungs into his throat, denial making it hard to breathe.

"You said an hour," Sherlock snapped upon answering it, cutting off the cheery little tune. "I've still got fifteen minutes left."

There was a slow silence on the other end of the line. Leather bent and creaked under John's fingers as he curled them into the arms of the chair.

"Fifteen…" wavered the little voice on the other end of the line and John felt a momentary flash of relief immediately crushed. "Fourteen…"

"No!" Sherlock insisted, raw panic in his grey eyes when they met John's, almost immediately suppressed. "It's a fake. The painting is a fake."

There was another pause and John held himself still against hope – the possibility was so close he could touch it, but felt it shatter with the count of thirteen in a tiny, terrified voice.

"It's a fake," Sherlock repeated. "But _how_ is it a fake?" He put down the phone and was intent on the screen again, shaking his head slightly, speaking over the small voice continuing the shaky countdown. "Think! The timing – the deaths, the recovery, the cathedral this morning, the river yesterday– _Oh._"

"Oh?" John demanded. "What 'oh'?"

"The river," Sherlock repeated, pushing himself to his feet, grey eyes gleaming. "Don't you see?"

"No!" John yelled.

"The cathedral doesn't change, not unless someone does it deliberately. But the river changes every day. _Timing_, John. A hundred years between when it was painted and now. _The river's changed._"

"But someone would notice!" John protested, wincing at the count of eight as he spoke. "If they changed the painting that much–"

"But they haven't," Sherlock countered. "It's so small, isn't it? Is that why you picked a child? Someone small for something small? You insisted on everything remaining the same except for that – the falls _do_ look slightly different, and the course of the river has been altered."

"Sherlock!" John snapped as the count reached four.

"One or two degrees. Not something that would be particularly noticeable to the naked eye – oh maybe a curator would see it eventually, but it's easy enough to pay off whomever's doing the initial assessment, isn't it?" He took a deep breath, grinning at John. "And easy enough for someone who sells – and therefore studies – property to pick up on it."

John was holding his breath, waiting for the final count of one and zero, dreading the silence that followed the tremulous 'two'. Sherlock met his eyes, neither of them moving, the silence stretched unmercifully between them.

"Is anyone there?" the young voice said and John was able to exhale, slumping back in his chair, the relief so strong it felt like a physical blow. "Please, can someone hear me? Please help."

* * *

><p>"<em>Bravo<em>." The speaker setting accentuated the echo of the slow clap on the other end. "I admit, I was a _teensy_ bit worried."

"Perhaps a degree or two?" Sherlock asked, grateful for the visual anonymity of the phone call; it was difficult to keep the disgust from his features. With Jim unable to see him, there was less reason to do so, but he didn't want to alarm John more than he already was.

Jim's laughter was a clear peal, sheer delight with no hint of the madness that drove it.

"Oh I knew there was a reason I liked you!" his rival exclaimed. "You have to admit, it was _very_ clever. Took _ages_ to find someone who could fool an expert. You should see it if you have a chance, Sherlock – before they figure it out. Masterful brushwork, it _really _is.

"Of course, now it will have to be exposed as a forgery. That's just a _bit_ of a bore, but all part of the game, right? It seems, Sherlock, that I owe you a fall."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed dryly, careful to keep the triumph from showing on his features. "I believe you do."

"Oh, temper, _temper_. I can hear it!" Jim sang. "I'm afraid the unpredictable role's already been taken, my dear. Watch him, Johnny boy, see that he stays _boring_ for me, will you? You're so much more fun when you're doing what I want."

"We've done it," Sherlock replied, meeting John's dark gaze. "The game's over, Jim. Give Jamie back."

"_Someone's_ lost count! Five pips, Sherlock – and how many are we at now? Let me see… the woman in the car, the man on the street, the _stupid_ one who said too much, and that sweet little boy… Well, that would be four! One more, boys. One final puzzle, if you will. I'll be in touch!"

The line went dead just as Sherlock had expected, the abrupt silence filled with John's sharp intake of breath. The tension had flowed back in like the tide that had just been so crucial.

It was startling to realize how much he despised seeing the tension in John, and worse to understand there was no way to alleviate it other than to see this through. The doctor held his gaze steadily. The sudden urge to wrap his arms around John was shocking and immediately suppressed – everything in John's body language suggested it would be entirely unwelcome, even if his eyes were pleading for reassurance.

Uncertain of what to say – maybe for the first time in his life – Sherlock chose to say nothing at all.

* * *

><p>Charles watched the news over the top of his newspaper, keeping the curl of a triumphant grin out of his impassive expression. The televised scene on a grey Paris morning was still chaotic, more crowds than actual events, but it wasn't a long wait until a handcuffed man was escorted out by the <em>gens d'armes<em>. The reporter was still delivering little more than rumours and Interpol was mentioned only briefly.

He murmured a habitual thanks when a cup of coffee was set down beside him. The aroma and the taste were chosen to perfectly complement the scents of the flat and the man who had delivered it. Charles raised his gaze when Dominique sat down across the table from him, his eyes on the screen.

"My sister won't like this," he commented without any concern in his voice.

"Is that a problem?" Charles asked.

"If I lived my life according to what my sister liked, I'd be a much better person," Dominique replied. "And so much more boring."

At this, Charles did allow himself a small smile and a faint chuckle.

"This was all a set up," Dominique continued, nodding at the screen.

"I can't be seen speaking to your sister on a regular basis without arousing suspicions, but she is extremely useful." He ignored the soft, cynical snort in reply. "And very good at her job. Does it bother you?"

Dominique was silent for a moment. There was a faint flare of concern that he'd misjudged before the other man shook his head and put his coffee mug down with a smile.

"You certainly made it worth my while," he replied.

"I'm also very good at what I do," Charles said. Dominique laughed quietly.

"No, it doesn't bother me," he replied. "In fact, the more you have to see of her, the happier I think I'll be."

* * *

><p>"Close your eyes."<p>

By the command in the unfamiliar voice and the brusque, efficient way the bag was over his head and his wrists were bound, Jamie guessed it was Sebastian and that he'd been right about his other captor's military training. He had just enough time to smile grimly before a needle slid into his skin and whatever vision he had in the burlap darkness began to swim.

—

When he awoke, he was stiff and sore again, but this time from lying in one position on a hard surface rather than from being tied up. Gingerly, Jamie sat up, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers into fists to encourage the circulation.

He wasn't surprised to find himself in another tiny room – more like a storage closet. There were wooden shelves lining the wall but a careful search revealed that they were empty.

The wooden slats came loose but the metal braces were firmly attached to the wall. As a weapon, the shelves were useless, but it gave him something to sit on that wasn't the concrete floor.

They'd returned his jacket and left him with the rationed food he'd set aside in the room with the couch.

Not the Jane Austen book though.

Jamie put the remaining food on a shelf and settled in to wait.


	88. Chapter 88

"Is our little doctor there? James is just _dying_ to see you again, Johnny boy. And he will, if you don't hurry."

"What do you mean?" John demanded before Sherlock could raise a hand stop him. Brown eyes met his, bright with anger and fear.

"Oh ho, he speaks!" Jim crowed. "So nice to hear your _voice_, Johnny! And haven't you heard so many voices? Such a pity, really, that you can't hear this one. It's a bit of a puzzle, you see."

"What is?" Sherlock enquired, keeping his tone level, giving his head a small shake when John's lips parted again. The doctor swallowed on whatever protest he was about to voice, lips pressing into a thin white line.

"Where is James?" Jim replied, half singing the words. "And we're both in the same place now – two James instead of one. But I'll have to pass on my regrets. I'd love to stay, I _really_ would, but you know how it is. But this James… all he has to do is wait. Wait for you, wait for time to run out. Whichever comes first."

"How long are you giving me?" Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, it's not me this time. It's the weather. Such a fickle thing, isn't it? _So_ changeable! That must be why I love it – who can ever tell what it will really do? The human body is such an adaptable thing, but the nights are still cold, aren't they? And without heating or a jacket… Johnny boy, you're the doctor. Do the math."

Sherlock's free hand shot out to cover John's mouth before the doctor finished inhaling.

"If you want me to find him, I need somewhere to start," Sherlock said, tone deliberately reasonable. There was a peal of delighted laughter on the other end of the line and the muscles in John's jaw clenched under his hand.

He released his partner slowly, earning a sharp, curt nod – but Sherlock could see what the silence was costing John and wasn't sure how long he could hold it.

"It's no different than the rest! There will be a call. The others all told you where to find them. And James knows where he is. He's got the address right here. All he has to do is tell you."

He could feel the strain of John's temper as he clamped down on his own instinctive reply. _Patience_, he thought. This was a puzzle and he could solve it. Only the how remained.

"The phone will be untraceable, of course," Jim continued. "And there will be no chance of texting. Can't make it _easy_, can I? You'd hate that. I'll be watching, Sherlock. _Don't_ disappoint me. You've done so well this far. It's been. So. Much. Fun. Don't make this one boring."

* * *

><p>It was two hours before Jamie's phone rang again.<p>

John had felt each second, aware of the dropping temperature outside as the night set, trying to work out all of the possible variables – was Jamie wet or sweating, how much clothing did he have, did he have any shelter, how long had he already been exposed? The futility of it all made him try harder.

The more outcomes he prepared for, the better medical attention he could provide.

At some point, he realized he didn't have his bag. Mentioning this to Sherlock made it appear almost by magic in Gerald's hands less than a quarter of an hour later. It gave him something to do for five minutes as he ensured everything was in place and ready to be used.

Sherlock was alternating pacing and standing so still he seemed like a statue, even the flicker of his eyelashes almost imperceptible. John wanted to say something – anything – but each time he opened his mouth, his voice failed him, leaving him as silent as Jamie.

Just as helpless.

When the phone finally rang, Sherlock had it answered before the end of the first cheery strain of music, opening up a wider, deeper silence in the flat. Within a moment, the rapid clicking of keys under Sherlock's fingers drowned out any sounds from the other end that John was straining to hear. He closed his eyes, fingers curling into fists, swallowing on the anger that rose in his throat.

A sharp pause in the typing made him look up again. Sherlock's eyes darted to the phone and he mouthed an instruction for John to speak.

_Of course_, he thought and knelt next to the coffee table, bringing himself closer to the tiny mobile that had been dictating his life for the past three days. A quick glance at the laptop screen showed Sherlock trying to trace the phone's location despite Jim's assurance that it wouldn't work. John turned his gaze to the mobile so that Sherlock's expression didn't quell the only hope he had left.

"Hey, Jamie," he said, forcing his voice to stay steady and casual. "It's John."

* * *

><p>"Hey, Jamie. It's John."<p>

After several days of lonely silences and Jim Moriarty's mad banter, the familiar voice was such a relief he had to close his eyes against the dizzying tilt around him.

The tiny light from the phone's screen was the only illumination in the darkness. Jamie had no idea what this place was, but it was cold, with gaps in the walls that let in the winter wind and the damp. Through one of those gaps, he could see an orange glow reflecting off the clouds that must be London's lights. If he wasn't in the city, he was at least close.

Close enough to find in time?

They'd taken his jacket, leaving him in a t-shirt and jeans – and, of course, the Semtex vest. The cold had settled into his bones but trying to curl up or shuffle into a less exposed area was impossible. He was so tightly bound he'd lost all feeling in his limbs within minutes, and John's suggestion that he try and make a sound – pound on the floor, tap the wall – made him swallow a silent, cynical chuckle.

"All right," John said after a moment's pause. "Okay. Sherlock's working on trying to track the phone. Jim said you know where you are, so we can figure it out."

He'd memorized the address scrawled on the wall opposite him before the sun had set – for all the good it would do. It was imprisoned by his severed recurrent laryngeal nerve.

John talked, and Jamie listened. It reminded him too much of being in the hospital, when he'd drift in and out of consciousness to the sound of John's voice, not really aware that he didn't have one of his own. Now that knowledge was too present.

To distract himself and to keep focused, he went through engines in his mind, visualizing them the way he had when he'd been a kid and just learning.

It was easy now, and John's voice was soothing and steady – _the perfect doctor's voice_, Jamie thought with a rueful smile.

He hadn't realized that the tiny light from the phone had vanished behind closed eyelids until John said:

"Jamie, for Christ's sake, don't go to sleep."

* * *

><p>Nothing.<p>

Years of carefully acquired skill that would have made Mycroft green with envy were proving utterly useless. Jim was one step ahead, all of Sherlock's attempts thwarted before he'd even thought of them. The mobile was untraceable even with technologies police forces only dreamt of and militaries guarded jealously.

He wanted to sit back, to admit defeat if only for a moment – it would give him a precious few seconds to regroup, but he was afraid. If he paused, John would stop talking, would give up hope.

The doctor's voice had become background noise as Sherlock had worked. Only a small part of his mind was given over to keep track of the one-side conversation, the rest bent on solving the problem.

There had to be a way. Some small clue from the other four pips that he had overlooked. Some connection between the other hostages and Jamie. The information Gabriel had provided him was detailed but there was no obvious connection. To ascribe a pattern to Jim's choices would be to give him more credit than he was due. It was more likely they hadn't been Jim's choices at all but picked at random by his people.

"Jamie, for Christ's sake, don't go to sleep."

The sharp command broke Sherlock's concentration. He raised his eyes to find John glaring at the phone, fingers curled around the edge of the coffee table.

"I know you want to," John continued. "You need to stay awake and listen to me. That's an order, Sergeant." He took a deep breath in the silence that extended from other end of the line, then met Sherlock's gaze, something dawning in his brown eyes.

"Can you work with the telly on?"

"Yes of course," Sherlock replied. Chatter and laughter occupied the room suddenly and John's instructions that Jamie listen to the programme were firm despite the slight tremor in his left hand as he set the mobile down closer to the television.

"Anything?" John whispered, crouching down next to the table again.

"Not yet," Sherlock replied.

"The temperature–"

"I know," Sherlock interjected.

"The temperature's going to be just above freezing tonight, Sherlock," John persisted. "Outside and without proper clothing – this is perfect hypothermia weather."

"I understand–"

"No you don't," John snapped, voice still low so as not to carry through the phone connection. "He already has it, which means we have don't even have time to wait for it to get any colder. His weight is helping, but he was seriously injured, Sherlock. He's not as resilient as he used to be. I bet your entire enterprise that Jim bloody well knows that and is using it. You have to _find_ him."

"I will."

"Because I do _not_ want to find a corpse. I don't. Sherlock–" John cut himself off, swallowing hard before exhaling a sharp sigh from his nose as if to steady himself. "I _can't._"

* * *

><p>When Sherlock's grey eyes widened, features relaxing into something that combined shock and realization, John felt a horrible flare of hope in the swirl of confusion.<p>

"What is it?" he hissed. "Sherlock?"

"Shut off the telly and give me the phone," Sherlock ordered in a tone so urgent that John's military training kicked in and he obeyed without thinking.

"Sherlock–"

A hand was held up to him, and John bit his tongue against another demand. Sherlock was still for a long moment, gazing almost blankly at the mobile, and John saw the tension flow out of his partner's body.

* * *

><p>The sound of the telly was cut off abruptly and Jamie blinked, startled by the silence that wrapped around him again. For a panicked moment, he thought the connection had been lost or the mobile's battery had died. Then John's voice was saying Sherlock's name sharply before another, longer silence descended.<p>

"Jamie, listen to me very carefully." Sherlock's voice was unexpected but calm and measured. "If you can hear me, I want you to exhale once, loudly."

* * *

><p>"Jesus Christ," John whispered at the loud sigh from the other end of the line. It was Jamie – he'd recognize the sound anywhere.<p>

"Good," Sherlock was saying. "Good. I need to ask you some questions. Exhale once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?"

There was another sharp gust of breath over the line and John felt his knees weaken, locking them to keep standing. It wasn't over and Jamie would need a doctor when they found him. He couldn't give in yet.

"Good. Do you know where you are?"

Yes. Jim hadn't been lying about that. John closed a hand over Sherlock's arm, surprised, in a small way, when Sherlock covered it with his own, squeezing lightly.

"Is there anyone else there with you?"

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line.

"Do you know if anyone else is there with you?" Sherlock rephrased, nodding when Jamie answered no.

"Do you _think_ anyone else may be there with you?" Another no.

"Did they put you in a Semtex vest?" The affirmative answer renewed John's tension, but Sherlock gave a little shake of his head.

"Did you see it when they put it on you?" Yes. "Do you know enough about wiring to know if it's been rigged?"

Another pause.

"Do you know enough about wiring to have an opinion about if it's been rigged?" That got a yes and John nodded grimly; a mechanic's training and military experience should at least give him a good idea.

"Do you think it is?"

No.

John almost laughed, choking back the sound as Sherlock's hand tightened over his again.

"Good. Now we're going to get the address from you."

* * *

><p>They were in the car before they knew where they were going, ready to leave as soon as they had a destination.<p>

John chafed under the slow pace of the whole process – each letter or number had to correspond to the proper amount of exhalations and there was only so quickly they could work without Jamie risking hyperventilating or exhausting himself. The switch between numbers and letters had to be accompanied by Sherlock asking about it first, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. With each passing minute, the night was dragging the temperature downward and eating away at whatever small window they had left.

But suddenly Sherlock was repeating a full address to Gerald and the car hummed to life, the slight acceleration making John's stomach lurch. The world dipped and spun around him and he sucked in a deep breath of his own, gripping the gloved hand that covered his like a lifeline.

Sherlock kept speaking, asking questions to determine everything he could about the situation. John kept a sharp ear on the responses and heard the moment they began to drift off, when Jamie's concentration wavered.

"Jamie, it's John. Can you hear me?" There was a brief pause then a yes.

"Good. Stay awake. You've got to stay awake. Can you do that for me?"

Another yes, this one somehow less certain.

"Good," John said again, trying to keep his voice light. "Because I'm going to make it damn hard for you to sleep, soldier."

* * *

><p>He could remember a time when he'd been small, before his father had left, curled up in bed and trying to sleep. Each time he'd drifted off, his parents' voices had shaken him awake again, cutting through the haze of semi-consciousness with a too-loud accusation or – in his father's case – a curse. It had kept going until the exhaustion and the uncertainty had been too much, and his mother had heard him crying. He'd fallen asleep with her rocking him in a blissful silence.<p>

This time, the voices keeping him awake were like little beacons. Each time he began to drift off, one of them would cut through and yank him back to something approaching wakefulness.

John's voice was easier to listen to but Sherlock made him think, asking him questions, forcing an awareness of his surroundings.

He tried not to shiver, tried to ball his numb hands into fists to help keep them warm. He ached everywhere but couldn't feel half his body. The cold seeped up from the concrete floor. He wanted to curl up – a foetal position was the best for retaining warmth.

He'd gone through colder nights in Afghanistan, he told himself in the blank spaces between the questions and his replies. He tried not to remember that he'd had the right kit back then, that he hadn't been bound, and that he'd been stronger. He tried not to feel the pain in his trachea scar or settling into his chest with each heavy exhalation as he answered the questions.

* * *

><p>"Out," Sherlock said but John hadn't needed to be told, swinging the door open before the car had even fully stopped. It failed to surprise him that Sherlock knew exactly how to kick in a door, and he was less than half a step behind his partner as they ducked through the shattered doorway, torches cutting bright white beams in the darkness.<p>

* * *

><p>The questions had stopped and he was glad. Maybe the mobile's battery had died, maybe the call had been dropped. He didn't know and found that he didn't care – or that it was easy enough to ignore the small part of him that was screaming that he pay attention.<p>

With his eyes closed, the darkness was just as deep but it felt somehow warmer. They'd told him in training and in briefings what freezing to death was like. It didn't seem so bad. John had been keeping him up for ages anyway, and now he wanted to sleep. He could remember something about feeling warm again right before it ended and thought he could look forward to that. It seemed like years since he'd been warm.

It would have been nice to curl up once next to Tricia and sleep that way, to have that kind of warmth. He thought he should regret that he wouldn't have it, but imagining it seemed good enough.

_Oh for fuck's sake_, he heard himself think as a sudden bright light crossed his face, sending painful flares through his temples even though his eyes were closed against it. He tried to twist his head away to find the comfortable darkness again, but now someone was yelling his name.

* * *

><p>Without being told, Sherlock scooped up John's torch from where it had been dropped to the concrete floor and stood exactly where John wanted him to, shining both lights on the bound figure. Giving himself no time to think, John pulled a knife from his bag and cut the ropes that had secured Jamie to a thick pipe that ran floor to ceiling, disappearing in the darkness overhead.<p>

"Oh no you don't, you bastard, wake up!" John snapped. Jamie stirred but didn't open his eyes and John repressed a snarl.

When he sliced the binds at his friends wrists and ankles, the sudden return of circulation did the job for him; Jamie gave a soundless yell, eyes snapping open. John caught him hard and stripped off the Semtex vest for Sherlock to kick away.

"Come on, come on," John repeated. "Stay with me, Jamie. We've got you now. We've got you. Just hang on, just a little while longer. You can do this, Jamie. Stay with me. I know you can do this."


	89. Chapter 89

John shut the door gently behind him and stood on the landing, half convinced it wasn't over. He listened hard for any sound, only to realize a moment later that he was waiting for Jamie to call out to him.

Leaning his forehead against the wall and concentrating on the feeling of the cool, hard surface to ground himself, he focused on keeping his breathing steady.

_He's all right, he's all right_. _He's fine now_, John reminded himself, forcing himself to accept the prognosis. He trusted himself as a doctor. Jamie trusted him. If Jamie had needed a hospital, John would have taken him to one.

"John?"

Reality returned with the sound of Sherlock's voice from downstairs. John stole another moment, taking a final deep breath before pushing off the wall and heading back down, half wondering if he was ready to face his partner yet.

Sherlock was seated on the couch where John had ordered him to stay – over three hours ago. He was shocked to realize how much time has passed. It was disorienting; he'd never lost track of the hours while in surgery. And while Jamie was missing he'd been aware of every second slipping away, knowing what it meant for the hostages if they ran out.

Would Jim have let Jamie die?

_Yes_, John thought.

He was aware that he was being watched – evaluated. It was almost unfair that Sherlock could understand so much from his expression. He _needed_ to say the words, even if his partner didn't need to hear them.

"He's sedated and asleep. He'll be fine. He just needs to rest."

Sherlock nodded, grey eyes still trained on him. For a moment, John saw him as a picture, frozen in time, dark hair, light eyes, pale skin, that stunning purple shirt under a black jacket, black trousers, polished black shoes. If someone was going to paint him, it would be this way, sitting there in his immaculate clothing with that cautious expression on his face.

John understood then what he had been desperately trying to comprehend the whole time – _why Jamie_.

Because it wasn't John. It wasn't _John_, it was someone he loved. He saw it reflected there in Sherlock's eyes, in that face that almost never showed its years. If Jim had taken John, Sherlock would have torn London apart, levelled everything in his path without care or consideration. He would have focused on that one task to the exclusion of everything else. It would have given him a singular purpose. He wouldn't have stopped until he'd found John. He couldn't do that with Jamie.

He had to watch John suffer.

Jamie didn't matter; he wasn't the point. Sherlock had said as much. Jim didn't care about him – what was another mechanic in a city full of vehicles?

Jim _did_ care about getting to Sherlock. First he'd done it with Gabriel. Now he'd done it with John, via Jamie.

And Sherlock _knew._ John could see that, too, so clearly. He'd known the point of the game the whole time and hadn't stopped.

Sherlock had put everything else aside and bent his massive intellect to the task of finding Jamie.

Sherlock could have walked away, refused to play.

_No_, John thought. _He couldn't have, he couldn't risk it_. Not anymore.

He stared at Sherlock who watched him back levelly.

What did it cost him to be that vulnerable to Jim? To know the other man knew exactly what his weakness was and not to rid himself of it? In Sherlock's world, what was that? No – up against Jim what was that? There had to be others like Sherlock at the top of other criminal organisations with families and loved ones. They weren't all psychopaths. They weren't all Jim.

They weren't all Sherlock, either. They didn't command Jim's twisted, obsessive attention.

And yet, Sherlock wasn't willing to back down. He wasn't willing to concede to Jim, to play by Jim's rules.

"John?" Sherlock said again.

John crossed the room in two strides, barrelling into Sherlock, throwing his weight so that they both collided against the back of the couch. Sherlock struggled for some control; John refused to let him take it. John crushed Sherlock's mouth with his own, forcing it open, and invading with his tongue His hands roamed trying to grip everywhere – hair, face, clothing.

Drawing his legs up so that he could kneel, John pinned Sherlock to the cushions with his chest. He groaned, pushing himself backwards and forcing Sherlock to arch his head to stay in the kiss. Holding Sherlock's hair with one hand, John began popping the buttons of the silk shirt, growling into Sherlock's mouth as his fingers fumbled. He changed his grip and pulled. The tearing of fabric earned him a startled gasp from his partner.

"I thought you wanted to wait–" Sherlock managed when John let him up for air.

"I did," John replied, pulling the silk shirt from Sherlock's trousers and pushing it aside to reveal the pale skin. "We did," he growled, dipping his head without warning and latching onto one nipple. Foregoing any gentleness, he nipped and tugged with his teeth, and Sherlock arched up with a shocked cry. John slapped a hand over his mouth, earning a startled "mmph!" in return.

"You have to be quiet," John hissed. "I have a patient upstairs."

Sherlock nodded, and John grinned fiercely. Sherlock's pupils were already dilated – but John wanted more. He ducked his head again, sucking and biting at the other nipple, while his hands went to work on Sherlock's belt and trousers. He felt Sherlock shift, felt warm breath in his hair, and sucked harder, earning a soft moan. Sherlock was watching him and John could hear the faint scrape of fingernails over upholstery as he fisted his hands into the couch cushions.

John pushed himself to his knees, freeing his partner momentarily.

"Lift," he ordered and Sherlock did as bidden. John slid his trousers and pants down to his ankles and Sherlock managed to toe his shoes and socks off before kicking his clothing away. Their eyes locked again, Sherlock's expression still stunned. John gave a feral grin as his eyes raked over the nearly naked expanse of Sherlock's body.

Sherlock was already half hard – but it wasn't enough.

John slithered off the couch, hands pressing against Sherlock's knees to spread his legs. John dipped his head then raised his eyes. Sherlock was breathing hard, head thrown back, drawing one long, sinuous line from his head to his hips. John raised a hand, running his fingers over that wonderfully long neck, and down the middle of Sherlock's chest. Then he pinched one of the nipples again and dropped his head, swallowing Sherlock into his mouth.

With a startled cry, Sherlock arched off the couch and John pulled back enough to be able to breathe without choking – it had been a long time since he'd done this but he wasn't about to stop because Sherlock was misbehaving. He flattened a palm on his partner's chest and felt the shudder run through Sherlock as he tried to regain control of himself.

Suddenly, there was a hand in John's hair, the other raised to Sherlock's lips, teeth scraping across knuckles to keep quiet. John refocused, gripping Sherlock's hips to keep him in place, and sucked hard. Sherlock moaned, and John chuckled, feeling the effect of the vibration as Sherlock twitched and writhed in his grasp.

He moved quickly, taking Sherlock to the very edge before stopping. He pulled away, running his tongue along the underside of Sherlock's cock as he freed it from his mouth. Sherlock was gasping, trying to raise his head to look at John, his fingers scrabbling in the doctor's hair in an attempt to push him back down. John snagged that wrist, then the other when Sherlock instinctively reached for himself.

"No," he murmured, seeing Sherlock's eyes widen – his pupils so far blown his eyes were nearly black. John's eyes darted to the side and Sherlock managed to follow his gaze, just aware enough for a confused expression to flicker over his features.

"John," he moaned, shaking his head, eyes begging for reprieve.

"Up," John commanded, pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the straining in his jeans as he did so. He tugged on Sherlock's wrists, managing to drag his partner to his feet. Sherlock stumbled, legs shaking, erection twitching. John grabbed him by the arms and pushed him backwards into the bookcase.

"Wait," he repeated, shaking his head as he pulled Sherlock away just enough to dispense with his shirt and jacket so that he was fully naked. Sherlock's nostrils flared as John pushed him back again, pinning him against the shelves, knowing full well they'd be digging into the bare skin on his back.

"John–"

"Quiet, remember?"

Sherlock managed a nod, and John invaded his mouth again, sucking on his tongue. He caught the answering moan and swallowed it, biting Sherlock's lower lip and twisting until he felt it start to bruise. He focused on the soft tissue; Sherlock's small gasps going straight to his groin. His jeans were far too tight, uncomfortable now. He unbuttoned them and kicked them off, letting his boxers follow. Sherlock's eyes dragged downward, dark and gleaming. He licked his swollen lower lip, making John moan softly.

He didn't have any lube.

And this wasn't going to wait for a trip to the chemist's.

He spat on his fingers, eyes locked on Sherlock's face the entire time, until he saw the moment of realization.

"Good?" John asked, breathing hard, and Sherlock nodded. There was a hint of hesitancy, but Sherlock nodded again. It was good enough for John. Sherlock wrapped one leg around John's waist and bent the other enough to bring him to the right height. John reached down and slid one finger in. Sherlock bit back a moan, forehead dropping to John's left shoulder. John felt the gasp against his skin when he added a second finger, twisting and scissoring as Sherlock's own trembling fingers dug into John's hips.

John pulled his fingers out, eliciting a quiet whimper of protest, then licked his hand again, reaching down to slick himself up. John met Sherlock's eyes, waiting for permission. Sherlock gave another slight nod that John answered with a feral grin. John crowded himself against his partner, grinding his hips, and Sherlock's head dropped back to rest on a shelf. John hissed triumphantly and clapped a hand over Sherlock's mouth just before he pushed in. There was a stifled cry and Sherlock's teeth closed over the skin of his palm. John just pressed harder against the bruised lips, earning another whimper that threatened to send him immediately over the edge.

He set the pace, hard and fast, dimly grateful that he'd thought to secure the bookshelf to the wall. Each thrust forced a faint puff from Sherlock, a wince running through his muscles as John forced him against the shelves. He wanted to see the marks they would leave, bright bruises scored across that smooth, even skin – the image made him groan and pick up his pace until he could feel Sherlock shuddering against him and his own legs trembling with the effort.

Sherlock managed to work one hand between them and John pressed closer, giving him no room to move. Feeling knuckles and heat against his abdomen, John used each thrust to force Sherlock's fist up, giving him the friction he needed. He could feel Sherlock panting under his hand, feel his partner tightening around him. He closed his eyes and slammed into Sherlock, timing it just as Sherlock's fingers were closing over his sensitive head.

Sherlock shouted under John's palm and bit down hard. John buried his face into his neck, just managing to muffle a shout as Sherlock's body constricted around him. Sherlock's heel digging into his back forced him even closer, and John bit down on his partner's clavicle to keep from moaning, causing another sharp but muffled gasp. He thrust involuntarily as his body let go, staying rigid for a moment as the last of the shock coursed through him. Then Sherlock slumped against him, and John nearly lost his balance, managing to keep them both up on legs that suddenly felt like rubber.

There was a faint rasping on his palm and it took a moment for John to realize Sherlock was licking it, tasting the blood he'd drawn. John moved his hand away and Sherlock's head dropped forward to rest on John's shoulder again, his body trembling faintly as he sucked in deep, steadying breaths. Sherlock was still holding on with one leg and all of his internal muscles, but moaned in protest when John shifted inside of him.

"Let go," John managed, and Sherlock groaned but dropped his leg, whimpering in relief and disappointment when John pulled out. John stayed standing – just – leaning his weight against his partner, pushing Sherlock back into the bookshelf and causing more faint whimpers as bruised skin came into contact with the hard surfaces again.

They stayed that way, breathing hard for a few minutes, until John felt steady enough to stand on his own.

"Shower?" he asked, his voice hoarse. His muscles were trembling with the effort of keeping himself up right.

Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't think I can," he replied, voice weak, almost stunned.

"Bed then," John said. Sherlock only nodded, stumbling after him down the short hallway. They barely made it, John crawling across the duvet, and Sherlock simply folding up until he was lying down. John shuffled about, arranging them so that they were under the duvet. He snaked his arms around Sherlock's back, skimming fingertips over skin, pressing more deeply here and there. He used the winces and hisses to figure out where the bruises would be forming.

"How long have you wanted to do that?" Sherlock asked.

"About as long as I've had a bookshelf," John replied with a smirk. Sherlock said something else, but John didn't hear the words, only the voice as sleep claimed him.


	90. Chapter 90

A silent alarm had probably been triggered. A flat like this, a man like him – there wouldn't be only one system. She'd forestalled any potential violence by texting a photograph of herself in the flat. He wouldn't send anyone else. He'd come himself.

Precisely what she wanted.

Time was limited – she worked as efficiently as possible. Her fingerprints were all over the flat, in all the places they should be. Absent from the safe because of the latex gloves.

It had taken her years to determine where it was – but she'd had years in which to do it. There were two dummy safes. A man like him wouldn't have just one.

Figuring out the code wasn't as hard as she'd anticipated. He felt secure in the knowledge that this one was invisible. He should have known better, but no one was perfect. The first two numbers were obvious from the faint impressions left on them. The next two in the set were a matter of deduction based on what she knew of him.

She avoided the obvious booby trap – and the less obvious one – and counted slowly to sixty before freeing the case. It took less than a minute to affix the tag between the plastic shell and the inner lining and replace the case in the safe. Less than two minutes later, she was back in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine and waiting for him to get home.

* * *

><p>"You shouldn't be here."<p>

"You came quickly," Cheryl commented. "Did he know where you were going?"

"I'm sure he did," Sebastian replied, and there was a certain snap to his words that he hadn't been able to suppress. "Why are you here?"

Cheryl rose, setting aside the nearly empty wine glass. Sharp sniper's eyes followed her movements, dark with warning when they met her gaze again.

"Tells yours to ease up. It's for his own good."

She didn't miss the faint flare of nostrils – he hated the ownership that was implied, the possession. And he hated her freedom from it; as much as she might belong to Sherlock, his requirements of her were never more than professional.

At the door, she turned back, meeting the heated gaze she'd felt on her through the flat. If he'd broken into hers, it wouldn't have meant the same thing. He'd have left no subtle scent of cologne in the air – no smell that could distinguish him – and she wouldn't have noticed him in the air currents. Cheryl had worn no perfume but he'd feel her anyway.

Jim's hold was a tight one, and he didn't share well.

"When the time comes, Sebastian, you may want to run."

* * *

><p>The darkness felt different when Jamie opened his eyes. Somehow familiar, as if the shadows were ones he knew. He didn't feel cold. More like he was floating, with something soft and warm supporting him.<p>

He smiled and slept.

Nothing had changed when he drifted awake again. If it was a dream, it was a good one. There was a light weight on his body and he could feel something restricting his wrists and ankles, but there was no numbing pain this time. He didn't need to know what it was; he didn't care.

That was drugs. But it felt all right this time – no adrenaline spike, no confusion. An illusion of peace, but he'd take what he could get.

There was a patterned breathing that he almost recognized. He'd wanted to go back to sleep but the presence of another person was enough to stir him into something approaching wakefulness.

He remembered John – his voice, his hands, his presence. It was a dream intermingled with memories from the time in the hospital. Jamie tried to think of Tricia instead – a much better dream – but the image of his friend kept nudging its way back in, irritating him enough for a scowl to tug at his lips, the twinge in his muscles pulling him further from sleep.

"You're all right," a quiet voice assured him. "You're in John's flat."

Jamie tried to hear the Irish overtones in the words, not understanding when they didn't fit. Maybe it was Sebastian? But the voice was too deep and comforting. Sebastian had only issued commands before blindfolding and drugging him. He waited to see if either of these two things would happen.

It didn't seem they would.

Vaguely, he wondered if he'd be left any food or water. It should have been long enough by now.

He tensed at the sound of someone moving quietly across the room, wincing when the curtains were twitched aside. It was still dark, but there was a glow that seemed familiar – _London_, he realized. He'd seen it in the distance from wherever he'd been. Now it tinted the sky just outside, a faint orange against the low clouds.

A figure was outline against the city's brightness; his mind was tired trying to fit it onto someone he knew. Not Jim, not Sebastian. Too tall to be John – and his hair was too long and curly. It made Jamie smile to try and picture John with long hair. That was the drugs, too.

_Oh_, he thought. _Sherlock._

All of Jim's mad words came rushing back to him, but without the panic that should have followed. Whatever John had given him – he had some hazy memory of that now – it was fantastic. Morphine had always made him feel slightly anxious.

He wondered suddenly where John was if Sherlock was there. His boss seemed to cut an odd figure and it took a long, studious moment for Jamie to realize Sherlock didn't seem to be wearing his typical suit but a t-shirt and possibly sweatpants. The image was so disconcerting he missed the question addressed to him the first time it was asked.

"Jamie. How do you feel?"

He sighed, then realized that wasn't their way of communicating anymore. After a few seconds' thought, he raised one arm, feeling the all-too-familiar pinch and tug of an IV needle, and mouthed the word "high".

There was a faint chuckle in the darkness.

"Sedatives and analgesics will do that."

He nodded and wished he had his phone or laptop so he could speak. But his fingers felt odd, and his hands. With a frown, Jamie raised them slowly, the sudden panic draining away some of the blunted feelings from the drugs.

"You're all right," Sherlock said again, extending a hand toward him in the near darkness. Jamie jerked away instinctively before he had time to note that Sherlock wasn't holding anything, wasn't close enough to hurt him. The gesture was changed, palm up to placate. He was pressed into his pillow, breathing hard, trying to curl his bandaged fingers into the familiar duvet.

It was his old room, he realized. He was home. In John's home. His flat was just downstairs.

But he couldn't move his hands.

_No no no, don't take this from me, too_, he begged silently, shaking his head. Without a voice, he could get by – just. He'd lost so much already. No song, no laughter. He'd never say the words he'd wanted to say to Tricia, he'd never recite his wedding vows; he'd never speak to their children.

Without his hands, he couldn't work.

He'd have nothing.

"You were tightly bound and had hypothermia. John wrapped your hands to protect against the abrasions on your wrists and for insulation. _Don't_ try to move them right now – you'll only end up regretting it when it hurts."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, allowing him to relax, and he forced himself to nod.

"Good." There was a suggestion of a smile in the darkness. "You should rest."

He wanted to ask about Tricia, about his sister and her kids, about John, but the idea had been planted and he could feel the exhaustion and the drugs tugging him down again. The darkness deepened when Sherlock drew the drapes again and Jamie surrendered to it without any fight this time.

* * *

><p>Sherlock slipped back bed, careful not to disturb John. Lying on his back proved uncomfortable; he settled on his stomach to ease the pressure on his bruised muscles. The sheets rasped against the bare skin of his arms and his stomach where the t-shirt had rucked up. He'd have to deal with that – it was unacceptable that John should be sleeping on such poor linens, and he certainly wasn't going to put up with it any longer than necessary.<p>

A slight change in the pattern of breathing beside him indicated John stirring, and a moment later there was a hand snaking under the borrowed t-shirt, fingertips pressing into muscle. He hissed at the faint flare of pain from the bruises and got a quiet hum of laughter in response as John narrowed his attention based on Sherlock's reactions.

He didn't need to imagine what his back looked like – he'd checked in the mirror before gingerly easing the shirt over his head. He'd always bruised easily and was no stranger to it from rough sex, but the three parallel bands of blue-purple across his back were a new sight.

The dull thrum of pain settled into his groin and he shifted against the sheets, trying to bury a moan in his pillow when John flattened the hand on his back and pressed hard. There was another chuckle, then warm breath on the back of his neck before John kissed him there, lips parted, sucking lightly.

"Good you're gorgeous," John murmured. Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile – he was used to hearing that, but it seemed different coming from John. There was more than desire, closer to awe or appreciation.

The hand that snaked between him and the mattress derailed Sherlock's plans to roll over and return that sentiment. He tried to bite back another moan, thrusting into John's palm, the sudden ache in his groin matching the pain in his back as John kept working fingertips deeper into the bruises.

"Easy, easy," John murmured. "No need to rush."

"Plenty of time for patience later," Sherlock managed. "Do it, John."

His hands found the headboard, fingers splayed against solid wood. He'd have to see to it that John got a new bed frame as well – none of this would suit his more specific needs.

That thought was lost too when John slipped his hand beneath the sweatpants and closed it into a light fist. The edges of Sherlock's vision went dark, and he groaned, dropping his head into the pillow and bracing himself as best he could. The probing fingers had found the most sensitive bruises on the small of his back and were digging in mercilessly.

"Come on then," John whispered, breath hot against Sherlock's ear. He whimpered when John slid his thumb over the head, brushing small, agonizing circles. "Come on, Sherlock."

It didn't take long until his breathing broke down into small, gasping sobs. John pressed his hand against the small of Sherlock's back, pushing him into the mattress and more firmly into the doctor's fist. Sherlock made a sound he barely recognized as his own when John's tongue dipped into his ear, moving in time with his own hips. His fingernails scraped against the headboard, scrabbling for purchase when John closed his fist and twisted his wrist, and Sherlock couldn't stop the hoarse shout, just managing to half muffle it in the pillow.

He was aware of John working him through it until he slumped against the mattress, breathing hard. There was another low chuckle and a nip on his earlobe.

"Oh no, we're not done yet," John murmured. The hand on his back slid beneath the elastic waistband of the borrowed sweatpants, two fingers trailing between his cheeks. Sherlock whimpered faintly, his legs spreading of their own accord, a warning flare of pain moving up his back as John rubbed lightly.

He was sore from last time and the attention combined with the overstimulation of his nerves made him feel raw. The brief moment of apprehension faded sharply to a twinge of desire with the soft slide of a drawer in the darkness and John's voice murmuring:

"Mineral oil should do the trick."

* * *

><p>An equation, all of the disparate parts coming together, forming one perfect answer– no. A <em>symphony <em>– each part a different melody, the sound of an individual instrument like the faint humming that was only an echo of the swell of music in his mind.

Cold air, cold concrete. Deep shadows, narrow circles of light. The scrape of soles on the hard floor, the whisper of fine silk as limbs moved. The scent of dust and disuse in the air, underlain by the faint, lingering aroma of subtle, expensive cologne.

All of it, together, a composition so perfect he could feel it, taste it. Savour it.

Even Sebastian, with his rough tension and misplaced frustration, concentrating on the task of defusing the vest that couldn't really explode anyway. Nimble fingers in the cold. The heat of irritation keeping him warm.

Jim laughed, a low, silvery sound in the pool of light that echoed in the shadows, coming back to him, adding to the melodies.

_Victory_.

It was so sweet he could taste it on his tongue, like the first sip of cool water on a hot day, the lightest fizz of the most exquisite champagne. The sensation had a nip, a hint, a suggestion that he could smell like patterns on the air, and there had been someone here, and here and here… not where Sebastian laboured, using the work to distract himself from the impotence, from the violation of his space and he could have shot her, the girl with the gun, but there was no fun in being obvious and besides, he'd said _no complications_ and meant it – not now.

Not while he was tasting such victory and the game had been played and Sherlock thought he'd won.

And Sherlock–

_Sherlock_–

_He_ was on the air, the expensive cologne, that almost muted scent that seemed to flood his lungs, writing the victory everywhere in his blood stream, microscopic particles but he could see them, imagine them, mixing with him until they _became_ him and Sherlock was there, where he should be, where he belonged.

"We're done here," he said when Sebastian was, tsking at the grunted reply, so unharmonic but not quite out of place, Sebastian's contribution, always thrifty with his words – that was a virtue, so they said, thrift. But sounds – quiet when he was working, always quiet, so well tuned to what he was going but there were sounds and he wouldn't sing but he would scream if played properly and Jim had just finished a game but he _so badly_ wanted to play more.

"Back to mine," he ordered, saw the flash on Sebastian's face, such a gorgeous mixture, everything that could be felt painted on his features, steeling himself against what was coming, against being too eager.

"What for?" he asked, perfect words perfectly placed, precisely what Jim wanted to hear, the knowledge that Sebastian knew his place, where he was wanted, what he was meant to say.

Jim grinned, and his mind sang. Everything tasted of Sherlock and he _wanted_ – oh he wanted. So very much.

"I haven't decided yet."


	91. Chapter 91

"Stand here," John murmured. The change in position was awkward – because Sherlock was the taller one, he should have been standing under the spray, letting just enough stream over John's body to keep him warm. But John had seen the slight winces his partner hadn't kept hidden – tiny, unvoiced protests when the steady spray hit his back. Although Sherlock hadn't complained, he was uncomfortable.

"Turn around," he ordered. Sherlock cocked a brow but did as bidden. John wet a flannel and smoothed it carefully over his partner's back, soothing the blue-black bands. They were vivid against Sherlock's pale skin, the contrast more obvious in the light, and just as enticing as they had been in bed a few hours ago.

John placed soft kisses along the length of one of them and Sherlock shifted, bracing himself against the wall with a hand.

"John," he murmured, but there was a hint of reluctance in his voice. John nodded, knowing Sherlock could feel it, and kept kissing lightly. _Nothing more than this_, was the unspoken acknowledgement. They were both tired, and Sherlock had to be sore. He wasn't moving stiffly or gingerly, but if John had learned anything about his partner in the past four days, it was how good he was at hiding discomfort.

The realization that those four days were over felt suddenly unreal again, like it had when he'd awoken in the morning – some terrible combination of the conviction none of it had actually happened and the fear that Jamie wasn't there. He'd rushed up the stairs, still half asleep, to find his friend safe in the spare bedroom, in a peaceful slumber.

If he thought about it too much it became hard not to panic, not to succumb to the rush of adrenaline telling him that everything wasn't all right.

But Jim couldn't be done. Not really.

The thought made a shiver pass up John's spine despite the warm water. He wanted to swallow the words that rose to his lips but the pressure was too great. He _had_ to ask.

"What if–" he began, but Sherlock cut him off with a faint hush, turning to face him again. A finger and thumb were pressed against his chin, tilting his face up, and Sherlock leaned down to meet his mouth, kissing him softly.

"Sherlock–" he murmured in the small space between them.

"John," his partner replied, voice little more than a warm whisper. "You said you trusted me. Trust me now."

He wanted to protest, but he was being kissed again, the tip of Sherlock's tongue running along his bottom lip before it was sucked on gently. With a sigh, he let Sherlock in to explore his mouth as his hands explored John's body, sometimes just a faint trail of fingertips, sometimes palms and heels digging gently into muscle. He spread his legs a bit and Sherlock took the invitation, pressing closer.

They stayed that way until the water ran cold, then climbed out, kissing as they dried off and dressed each other. The sight of Sherlock in one of his t-shirts and a borrowed pair of sweatpants stirred desire in John and made him smile. He'd ruined Sherlock's shirt the night before, and could only hope he'd buy another one just like it.

Or several.

He'd have to start keeping some spare clothing here, too. Just in case.

A sharp ear tuned to any noise from upstairs picked up a faint creak and John pulled away to listen harder. When there was another shift in the floorboards, he hurried through the flat, murmuring a vague acknowledgement to Sherlock's promise of coffee, and climbed the stairs quickly.

Jamie was stirring, blinking himself awake with a dazed look. John did a rough and rapid assessment – his friend's colouring was good, his breathing was normal, his gaze was as alert as could be expected. He turned somewhat glassy hazel eyes towards John when the doctor shut the door gently.

"How do you feel?" John asked. Jamie shook his head slightly, raising a bandaged hand to cover his eyes, and John caught the mouthed word "tired".

"That's normal," he replied. Jamie's lips twitched, a rueful expression passing over his features before the fatigue settled back in. He made a vague gesture and John passed him the pen and pad of paper he'd brought up. The bandages made his writing clumsy, but John wasn't willing to take them off and Jamie would be rubbish at using a keyboard in this condition anyway.

_Tricia?_

"She's fine," John said quickly. "She doesn't– I didn't tell her." There was a flicker of expression, a shadow over Jamie's tired features, and John held up a hand, shaking his head. "It's all right, she's fine. We can– I don't know– figure out what to tell her later."

Jamie looked away, mouthing a curse, before writing something else.

_Where would we begin?_

_Where _would_ we begin?_ John asked himself. The explanation for this was insane – how could ever explain it to anyone, let alone Tricia?

He should walk away right now. He should go downstairs and tell Sherlock to leave. He should keep his head down, never say anything to anyone about this. He should go back to a normal life – get a surgery job, find someone who made a legal living, never step into danger or call attention to himself again.

Only he knew he wouldn't.

And even if he did, he was on Jim's radar. It didn't matter that neither he nor Jamie had anything to do with Sherlock's business or their rivalry – reason wasn't something Jim held in high regard. With Sherlock they had protection, and John knew they'd have a lot more of it from now on.

"We'll think of something," he said.

_How long?_ Jamie asked.

"Four days."

Jamie closed his eyes, sighing slightly, but it wasn't just resignation in his expression. The fingers holding the pen loosened and John took it with the pad to put them aside.

"Sleep," he said. "It's the best thing for you right now. I'll be here all day. I'm not going anywhere."

Jamie managed to blink his eyes open long enough to nod before they fell shut again. John sat on the edge of the bed until his friend's breathing evened out, and then stayed a few more minutes, trying to reassure himself that this was real, that Jamie was all right and safe, and that he wouldn't wake up to find it had all been a desperate dream.

It was the faint sounds of Sherlock's voice that drew him back to reality. John crept down quietly so as not to disturb Jamie's sleep, catching the small snatches of a one-sided conversation. All of the suspended dread rushed back and he froze, breath caught in his throat.

"Surely _you_ must–" Sherlock said, cutting himself off in mid-sentence, a displeased huff escaping his lips. "Yes, yes. Of course. I understand. There must be some compromises that can be made."

There was another pause in which Sherlock passed between the open kitchen doors, seemingly unaware of John's presence at the base of the stairs, his phone held precariously between his ear and shoulder as he set two mugs on the table.

"Yes, I will. I did promise, after all. No, not tonight. Tomorrow, yes. Try to– no, I know you can have results by then." Grey eyes flickered John's way, a faint flash of surprise crossing his expression. "We'll discuss it later," he said and bid the caller good bye.

"It's all right," he said quickly, holding up a placating hand, and John felt a rush of relief follow a sharp exhale, pressing a hand against the wall to steady himself. "That had nothing to do with Jim."

He managed a nod as a steaming mug of coffee was pressed into his hands. The shock of heat gave him a focal point and helped chase away the worst of the fear, which only left him feeling drained. He was steered toward the couch and pushed gently down to seated. John sipped his coffee gingerly, shifting over slightly as Sherlock settled beside him. Long fingers wrapped around the back of his neck to dig into the muscles on either side of his spine. He tilted his head back, grimacing slightly as the knots at the base of his skull began to release.

"John, I am sorry," Sherlock murmured. John shook his head as best he could.

"I don't want to talk about it. Please."

"If you're sure."

"I am. Just– promise me that won't ever happen again."

John felt a flash of fear in the slight pause, opening his eyes to find Sherlock watching him almost impassively, not quite masking the certainty behind his expression.

"I promise."

"Do you?" John asked. When Sherlock nodded, there was a rush of relief. Relaxing even more, he leaned his head back further into Sherlock's hand, letting his fingers work in deeper. The mug was taken from his hands and John loosened his grip to let it go, not really caring about its loss when Sherlock turned his head and pulled him into a kiss.

The faint tug and pressure of guiding hands had him lying full length on Sherlock; he wanted to ask about his partner's back, but Sherlock didn't seem inclined to complain or let him speak. Fingers wound into his hair, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss.

_We're like bloody teenagers_, he thought, grateful that Jamie had just gone back to sleep and wouldn't be waking up soon. Sherlock arched up against him, one hand dropping to John's hip to push them closer together.

Clothing came off the same way it had gone on so recently – slowly, with exploratory touches. Sherlock chuckled at John's ticklish spots; John got him back by sucking languidly on a nipple, turning his partner's soft laughter into quiet moans.

The heat of Sherlock's erection against his and the mingled wet warmth between them made John's eyelids flutter when Sherlock hooked their legs together. John braced himself on his forearms, biting his lip as he watched the pleasure flicker across Sherlock's face. Gone was the impassive mask; John drank in each tiny change, relishing the way Sherlock's head tipped back and he caught his lower lip when John thrust harder.

"The oil–" Sherlock managed, patting blindly with a hand.

"Oh god," John gasped. "Bedroom. We'll have to finish this way–"

"Not good enough," Sherlock said, twisting his head side-to-side. "You've got– oh god– you've got to get more–"

"And just stash it around the flat?" John groaned as Sherlock's legs came up to encircle his waist.

"Yes," Sherlock moaned. John couldn't contain a moan of his own when Sherlock brought a hand up to lick a long stripe over his palm, before working it between them, coating John with saliva and precum.

"You can't possibly want–"

"Oh yes I can," Sherlock replied.

"You'll be–"

"_John_," Sherlock growled. John managed to still Sherlock's hand, shaking his head.

"Hold that thought." He hurried to the bedroom to fetch the mineral oil, hesitating as he entered the living room, realizing that along with no lube, he also hadn't thought about condoms.

"Not something to be worried about," Sherlock said, beckoning insistently.

"How did you–"

"Trust me. I'm clean and it's been more than six months for you."

"Thanks for that," John replied and Sherlock growled again.

"_John. Come here._"

He was pulled into a hard kiss, managing to catch himself on one arm to keep from collapsing on his partner, who stole the jar and coated John quickly. Long fingers closed over his until his skin was slick and Sherlock was drawing a leg up to his chest.

"Two. Now. Do it," Sherlock ordered, dropping his head back into the cushion when John obeyed. He nearly lost the last of his dissolving control when Sherlock reached between them, oiled hand closing over him again.

"John– It's good enough– _Now_."

Sherlock released him momentarily and John abandoned any more protests, pushing in carefully, trying unsuccessfully to swallow a moan. Sherlock stifled a cry in his shoulder, hips tilting to pull John in deeper.

If he'd thought Sherlock's expressions had been captivating before, it was only from lack of seeing him like this. John kept his thrusts slow and shallow, but each movement registered on Sherlock's face, a trace of pain – a slight tightening around his lips – mingled with stronger pleasure. Heavy-lidded eyes shaded blown pupils; a flush crept across his nose and up his forehead to darken pale skin. One arm was thrown over his head, fingers curling tighter into the upholstery at the apex of each thrust, the other hand working between them to wrap into a fist around himself. John felt the scrape of knuckles against his abdomen and almost lost his pace, a shudder passing up his spine.

"Deeper and faster," Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock–"

The growl spurred him on; it was all John could do to keep himself together when Sherlock's legs tightened, heels digging into John's thighs. He arched his head back even more, almost pushing himself off the couch, breath coming in harsh little gasps. John braced himself and drove even harder, turning the gasps to whimpers.

He could feel the pressure mounting but resisted, biting the insides of his cheeks as he pushed Sherlock over the edge, muffling his partner's cry by invading his mouth. He thrust as hard as he could as Sherlock came between them, then felt the tightening of muscles and the tilting of hips that made his world go black, reduced to the sensation of Sherlock around him. John shuddered, feeling the faint flutter of tremors still coursing through his partner, and fought to keep himself from collapsing altogether.

It was a long moment before he could focus on anything. Gradually, the sound of his harsh breathing levelled off and he was aware of fingers carding through his short hair, the sensation almost too much. Sherlock was watching him with sated, shaded eyes, a faint smile curling on the edges of his swollen lips.

"We'll have to shower again," John murmured, making no move to pull free.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, making no move to let him go. "It seems we will."

* * *

><p>"Take this," John said. "You're going to need it."<p>

"I'm not as fragile as you seem to think," Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow.

"Maybe not," John agreed, "but you're also not particularly good at knowing your own limits. If it were anywhere else, I'd suggest ice."

"That probably wouldn't be beneficial right now," Sherlock agreed. "But something to add to the list for later."

"You have a list?"

"Oh yes. It's quite extensive," Sherlock said, plucking the small box of painkillers from John's fingers. "I'm sure in a day or two, I'll be more than able start crossing things off."

Ridiculously, John felt himself flush, which made Sherlock's lips stretch into a slow grin.

"You might want to ice those bruises on your back," he said, sticking with his medical professionalism as best he could. The gleam in Sherlock's eye told him that he wasn't entirely succeeding. "And maybe avoid sitting. I suppose it's too much to tell you to take it easy?"

"Now where would be the fun in that?" Sherlock murmured, leaning down to nearly brush his lips against John's.

He steeled himself and swallowed on the urge to tell Sherlock not to leave. As much as he wanted to ask, it would sound sentimental when he knew Sherlock had work to do.

"What will you do?" he asked instead. There was a hesitation, the smile vanishing slowly, and Sherlock shook his head.

"Better if you don't know."

"I think after the past four days, I've earned it," John replied, keeping his voice easy despite the stubbornness that settled inside him.

"Yes, you have," Sherlock said. "But it's better if you don't know all the same. You said you trust me, John. I trust you. I also trust my own judgement."

"Nothing you tell me would be admissible in court," John countered.

"This doesn't fall under doctor-patient confidentiality."

"I'm not your doctor. Not anymore. I'm your partner."

"In that case, I shouldn't be accepting this from you," Sherlock replied, pressing the pills back into John's hand. "Besides, I've got something stronger at my flat. I think you'll find that I'm not unprepared. Nor am I particularly worried about the law." He held up a hand when John opened his mouth to protest, giving his head a small shake. "Please don't do this, John. Not right now. Let me do what I need to, and trust that I'm telling you whatever you need to know."

John sighed and held out for a moment before relenting with an abrupt nod. Sherlock's features relaxed again and he pressed a soft kiss against the doctor's lips.

"Stay here, look after Jamie. I promise this won't go unpunished."

"See that it doesn't," John replied.

* * *

><p>Hot coffee and the sound of the telly were good distractions from the ache in his leg that warned against not enough sleep.<p>

It was still so early in the morning that it was the middle of the night in New York City, but the news slept less than Gabriel did, and the darkness could be pushed back by lights – cameras, flood lights, helicopters, emergency vehicles. Even in the wee hours, the scene had drawn crowds of onlookers and reporters being held at bay by weary-looking police officers.

"… an early morning raid at Port Newark has led to the arrest of several key members of a drug trafficking ring. Special Agent Victor Trevor with the FBI spoke to reporters earlier…"

Gabriel grinned as he listened to Victor give a calm, authoritative statement that revealed nothing more than he wanted. It was rare to see him – rarer still to speak to him – given that his status at the FBI left him open to far more scrutiny. He'd had warning this was going to happen, but not much, and it had come through their Canadian lieutenant as it almost always did.

A snippet of a song distracted him, an Italian composition sung by a talented soprano, recorded specifically for her ring tone.

_Tell Mycroft to send the jet this time_, Irene had written. _He owes me one._


	92. Chapter 92

_Lie._

John looked for some hint of reluctance or deceit behind Jamie's expression, but there was none. There were still dark circles smuggled below his tired eyes, and the strength he was trying to hold onto was costing him.

"Are you sure?" John asked.

Writing was still a struggle; he waited patiently as the answer was scratched out under Jamie's pen.

_What would you tell her?_

It always came back to that – and John had no answer.

"Jamie–"

_I'm not stupid._

John pursed his lips to repress a sigh. He _knew_ the most rational course of action would be to report this all to the police, to wash his hands of the whole thing.

Only it wouldn't work to try and simply walk away, not now. He was far too deeply implicated, but it worried him that Jamie might be doing this for him instead of for himself. John had chosen this path – at least partially. He couldn't have turned down the job without putting his family at risk, but the rest – but Sherlock – he could have.

And because he hadn't, he'd put Jamie through four days of hell at Jim's mercy.

_He's insane. The cops can't stop him._

John shook himself back to reality. "No," he agreed. Sherlock could – Sherlock _would_.

But not if the police became involved. And if they told Tricia the truth, there would be no chance of avoiding that. Here and now, they were the only two people who had to know.

He hated the thought of not telling her – _almost_ as much as he hated the thought of her finding out.

"I'll tell her you have the flu," he said. "You need to rest. I don't want it going into your lungs." That was true – he'd been listening to Jamie's breathing each time he checked on him, straining his ears for even the faintest wheezing or rattle. With his friend's injuries, a lung infection was dangerous, but so far John was cautiously optimistic.

_If_ Jamie rested enough.

John sighed inwardly, still torn, hating himself for knowing what he had to do. It felt selfish no matter which way he looked at it: hiding the truth let him keep his life the way it was, let him keep his partner, his job, his home, all while being unmolested by the police. Exposing the truth meant taking away the one good chance the world had of being rid of Jim Moriarty. John knew the police weren't equipped to handle this. They would never be, not even if they had all of the information and resources Sherlock had. Because they didn't have Sherlock himself.

"Do you trust him?" John asked suddenly. "Sherlock."

_Found me, didn't he? _Jamie wrote. _Someone needs to stop that bastard._

John hesitated a long moment before nodding.

"I'll send Tee an email."

It was Jamie's turn to nod, but John didn't miss the way his eyelids dropped shut for too long a moment to be a blink.

"You need to sleep," he said, pushing himself to standing from where he'd been perched on the edge of the bed. Jamie gave another tired nod, pen moving across the notepad again.

_The flu. Tell her. _

"I will," John promised. "Get some rest."

* * *

><p>Even on the days when the blood wasn't too bad, she could feel it clinging to her like the dampness of a London winter that got under the skin and never seemed to quite fade from memory.<p>

There was a stiffness, too. Fingers protesting when she flexed them to release the tension from the hours of holding scalpels and tweezers. Shoulders aching when she rolled them back. Neck cracking as she tilted it side to side. Coaxing life back into tired muscles.

A hot shower helped. Sweat, blood, stiffness all washed down the drain. As much as could be dissolved by the water, anyway. Stepping out into the chilly air, damp ends of her hair crisping into ice, Tricia felt halfway human again. Blinking in the sun and the realization that the world was more than sterile scrubs, vital signs, and a team of hands trying to keep death at bay.

The camp had a restless energy, a kind of buzzing that set all of her defences on alert. Strained hearing picked up voices and vehicles, but not the gunfire, bombs, or helicopters that would signal a typical warzone crisis. It hadn't been enough to disrupt the surgery teams, but now, in the real world, there was a distraction from daily life. Something outside the ordinary.

As if on cue – a small part of her suspected it was – Sarah Watson appeared. Her absence had been noted. Tricia had grown used to her shadow's constant presence; having some space had been both welcome and curious.

"Have you heard?"

"I've just come from surgery." If it wasn't medical, Tricia wasn't sure she wanted to know. Several busy days had left her exhausted, a numb feeling in her mind. Her last text to Jamie left her feeling guilty. He understood – _really_ understood – but it had been a complaint, not a conversation.

"Come with me."

A sigh was withheld; the tone of voice and the set of Sarah's jaw meant she wasn't getting away.

"This where you've been all day?" she asked.

"Yes. We've been on the phone all day to London. Busted a smuggling ring. Weapons in, heroin out. It goes almost all the way to the top with the Australians – and I wouldn't be surprised to find one or two of our own people implicated."

"Christ," Tricia sighed. "Here?"

"What better place for it?" Watson replied.

"We're supposed to be stopping this kind of thing."

"Greed is greed, no matter how you dress it up." Sarah shrugged, as if that was somehow irrelevant, but there was banked fire behind her eyes, creeping in around the edges of her expression.

"Where are we going?" Tricia asked.

Sarah's smile was faint, verging on dangerous.

"To watch the good guys win."

* * *

><p>He broke his own rule and had a cigarette in the car on the way home, refusing to open the windows, relishing the pungent scent that hung in the small space. Gabriel would smell it on him but Sherlock didn't care. No one – even his young associate – could argue that he hadn't earned it.<p>

A shower wasn't necessary since he'd taken two, but a change of clothes was; John's borrowed t-shirt wouldn't do. Sherlock found himself longing for the soothing feel of silk over the bruises on his back. He made a mental note to buy more of the purple – John seemed fond of those.

By happy coincidence – or, more likely, his second-in-command's well-trained judgement – Gabriel hadn't left for the office yet and met Sherlock at his flat instead. He was well aware he wasn't giving any hint of his discomfort – no wincing, no slow or stiff movements – just as he was well aware that Gabriel had known for eight years and had an irritating ability to read him almost as well as Mycroft could.

Without the added aggravation of actually _being_ Mycroft.

Coffee made, Sherlock waved Gabriel onto the couch, watching his reactions with a sharp eye. Faint discomfort when he propped his leg on a pillow – not pain so much as an ache.

"Where's Richard?"

Gabriel arched an eyebrow but didn't ask the obvious question with the equally obvious answer. He'd slept well the night before, after wrapping things up – better than he had been lately, and not just because rest would have been scarce the past several days for him too.

"In my closet."

Sherlock's sudden laughter was short and sharp, an answering smirk curling on Gabriel's lips.

"Appropriate," Sherlock commented dryly.

"I thought so. Aren't you going to sit?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied. The car ride had been uncomfortable enough, and he'd had to resist the urge to shift. The bruises on his back made finding a decent position even harder than it would normally have been. Standing wasn't precisely comfortable either, but the only other option seemed to be lying down on his stomach, which was _not_ a posture conducive to doing business.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, green eyes glinting knowingly.

"All right, that's enough," Sherlock said crisply.

"I didn't say anything," Gabriel replied.

"Yes, I can hear you not saying anything _very loudly_," Sherlock answered, earning a quick grin.

"How's Jamie?"

"Resting under John's care. He'll be fine."

"That's good," Gabriel said, and there was genuine relief in his voice. Sherlock had been surprised to feel it himself – not only because Jamie was a close friend of John's, but for the mechanic's own sake. He hadn't realized how concerned he'd actually been until he'd seen Jamie safely asleep in the spare bedroom in John's flat.

They had walked a very thin line and Sherlock knew it, even if John wasn't fully aware of how precarious their situation had been..

Depending on Gabriel's success – and that of his lieutenants overseas – no one else ever would, either.

He had no plans that Jim should learn what sort of shaky ground he was standing on.

Not yet.

* * *

><p>It wouldn't look like much. Not at first glance. Not even with some investigation.<p>

Arrests were made all the time, particularly given the situation on the continent. Charles had done well with St. Jean and now had reliable access to her via her brother. Jim's suspicions wouldn't be raised any more than they normally were when it came to his French lieutenant.

And in America, the FBI was notorious for actually being moderately efficient. There was certainly a hint of Alessandra de Luca behind Victor Trevor's information, and the raid undoubtedly cleared away some inconvenient competition for her grandfather's business. A drugs bust that significant would be a feather in Trevor's cap and probably meant a promotion, which would be useful.

"I'm waiting for Charles' travel plans," Gabriel was saying, "but Irene wants Mycroft to send the jet."

"I'm sure she does," Sherlock murmured, sipping the last of his coffee.

"She says Mycroft owes her."

"An interesting calculation of debt, since it was Angela who gave her the information. But let's try and keep her happy. I'll speak to Angela when I see her tomorrow for dinner. She's more likely to say yes."

"You're going there?" Gabriel asked.

"Oh yes. I have business with my brother. And I made a promise to my nephew."


	93. Chapter 93

There was someone watching him.

Gabriel's eyes snapped open in the darkness. He lay perfectly still, the rigidity of muscles sending small spasms down his injured leg until he forced himself to relax. He held his breath as he strained his hearing, listening for some hint of where the intruder was.

It was a physical feeling, a certainty that he wasn't alone. But the silence that surrounded him wasn't patterned by the wrong noises or by an inconsistent lack of noise.

It was the silence of his flat in the middle of the night.

He began to relax cautiously, wishing Sandra was with him. There was a comfort from someone else's presence that would dispel the sleep-addled fear so much more quickly.

When he blinked his eyes open, there was nothing out of place in his bedroom, no deepening of the shadows to suggest that anyone else was there. Gabriel resisted the urge to flip on the light – it wouldn't do anything but hurt his eyes.

The security system was on and he that it worked perfectly. To prove the point to himself, Gabriel propped himself on his forearms and scanned the whole room carefully.

_There_, he told himself. _See? Fine._

He lay back down, just listening over the soft sound of his own breathing for a few minutes until the feeling of normality began to ease back in, displacing the weight in his lungs. Whatever panic had awoken him faded, and his eyes drifted closed as the warm prospect of sleep stole back over him.

"Wake up, baby brother."

* * *

><p>"Jesus Christ!"<p>

He was swinging himself to standing before remembering he couldn't put weight on his right leg, shifting his balance to his left and ending up in a crumpled heap with his blankets on the floor.

A moment of panic forced his mind through all the possible variables – where Richard was, if he was armed, where his own gun was, if his crutches had been knocked over, if he could reach his phone. Gabriel realized suddenly that he was alone, that the voice was a nothing more than a memory.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, focusing on calming his breathing, and switched a light on to look around the room.

He was still alone.

But he could feel his brother's presence like chains, like hands closing around his throat, making it harder to breathe. Richard _was_ there, the memory of his malicious laughter fading in Gabriel's mind.

With some effort, he forced his fingers to release the bunched duvet and focused on his breathing to temper the worst of the adrenaline surge. Almost against his will, his gaze skittered across the room to the closet where he'd shoved the box of his brother's remains. In the darkness, it was too easy to believe it wasn't a simple box shut away behind that door, but that his brother was lurking there, waiting for him to make the mistake of feeling safe.

Without letting himself doubt the sudden decision, Gabriel reached for his phone.

* * *

><p>At two in the morning, a phone call from Gabriel would have been followed by a problem that needed his immediate attention. Instead, the brief strains signalled a text message.<p>

_Get the car and meet me downstairs._

Urgent, but not of a professional nature. Sherlock found his coat and keys and stepped into the silence of the lift.

* * *

><p>"Where's Gerald?"<p>

"He does get time off, you know. And it is the middle of the night," Sherlock said. He took the small box containing Richard's remains without comment as Gabriel settled himself carefully into the passenger seat.

"Does John know you can drive?" Gabriel asked, a small smile playing on his lips despite the tired look in his eyes.

"Does Sandra know you can't?"

"I can learn."

"Not until your leg's fully healed. Where are we going?"

"The river. Somewhere that we can get right down next to the water."

* * *

><p>"Get me a rock."<p>

Sherlock vanished into the darkness with the box, his presence indicated only by the sounds of his footsteps over the uneven surface below the old dock. The moonlight wasn't enough to see into the distance, except for across the water, where it cut a blue ribbon dotted with tiny orange pinpricks of light reflecting from the bridges above and the distant buildings along the banks.

When Sherlock returned, Gabriel exchanged his crutches for the now-weighted box, balancing himself carefully with a hand on his friend's shoulder. The stance was awkward even with Sherlock braced but it would have to do. Gabriel adjusted his grip and pitched the box over arm as hard as he could. There was an arch of white over the dark path of the river before the silence was shattered by a faint splash. There was no dramatic bobbing up; the box vanished beneath the surface, dragged under by the weight of the stone.

The ripples vanished in the current, erasing all the evidence. Richard was gone. The tide would tug him out to sea or he'd rest on the bottom of the river bed, buried slowly by the mud. Gabriel would have no idea where Richard was.

Like the rest of his family.

He laughed suddenly, swallowing it before it could emerge as more than a cut-off chuckle. The relief was heady, like dropping a weight he hadn't even known he was carrying. He felt light, as if he could finally just walk away from a lifetime of memories.

Hobble, anyway.

"Done?" his boss asked.

"With that one," Gabriel replied, still watching the water slip past. He paused a moment, then flashed a quick grin Sherlock's way. "By my count, we still have one left."

* * *

><p>"Turn right here."<p>

Sherlock took the instruction without comment, following Gabriel's continued direction. He'd never been to Sandra's flat before, but he knew where she lived – he'd known that since she'd been nothing more than Gabriel's nurse in the hospital – and he wasn't the least bit surprised when they pulled up outside of a small, non-descript building.

"You do have work in the morning," Sherlock said as Gabriel climbed carefully out of the car.

"I know. I'll be there." He hesitated slightly, a pause that would be barely perceptible to someone who didn't know him well. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He watched until Gabriel was safely inside, then put the car in gear with the intention of going home, but ended up at Baker Street instead.

* * *

><p>John was tussled from sleep, creases from his unacceptable linens lining the right side of his face, his short hair sticking up in all directions, but the sleep faded from his eyes when he registered Sherlock's presence.<p>

"Everything's all right," Sherlock assured him, holding up a gloved hand. It took a moment for the doubt to vanish and for the rigid lines of his muscles to relax.

"Come in then," John said, stepping back and pulling the door open all the way for him. The warmth of the common corridor was welcome after the chill that had hung over the river. "Any particular reason you're here at three AM?"

"Yes. You."

John gave him a puzzled look as if suspicious that Sherlock was having him on. Sherlock only raised his eyebrows in response, and John's features relaxed into a smile.

"Come upstairs," the doctor said, leading the way. With an inward sigh, Sherlock curled a hand around the banister and swallowed on the discomfort. Stairs were not something with which he had to contend in his day-to-day life, given the layout of his flat and his office, but he'd been re-introduced to their inconvenience at his brother's the night before.

He was fairly certain he'd hidden his reaction from Mycroft and possibly from Angela – but it was more difficult to tell with her, since she never felt the need to gloat at perceived weaknesses. He certainly could have hidden it from John, who was the cause of the pain that gripped his entire back, but he found himself not wanting to.

The doctor paused on the first landing, looking down to where Sherlock had only climbed halfway.

"You all right?"

"Mm," Sherlock replied noncommittally. John hesitated then sighed, a smile twitching his lips.

"You're still sore."

"Very," Sherlock said with somewhat more feeling than he'd intended.

"I tried to tell you."

"Believe me, it was worth it."

"We can be a little less–" John waved his hands vaguely and Sherlock's lips curled in wry amusement at the fact that a trained surgeon with his experience would be embarrassed to say it.

"Rough," Sherlock supplied, and John coloured.

"Yeah."

"Did you hear me complaining?"

"No," John conceded. He paused again, a brief thoughtful expression crossing his features. "Take your time. I have an idea."

Sherlock was abandoned on the stairs to make his slow way up. He stepped into John's flat and closed the door to the sound of running water. Divesting himself of his coat and shoes, he made his way through the flat to the bathroom where John was waiting for him with a grin, testing the water with one hand.

"This'll help. Then we'll go to sleep."

"You don't have to coddle me–"

"Sleep," John said firmly. "As in, not be awake."

"All right," Sherlock agreed, somewhat taken aback.

John undressed him, his movements somewhere between professional and sexual – a deliberate mix, Sherlock thought, and an interesting one. He was being evaluated on more than one level, and it was somehow more reassuring than stimulating.

Over the past two days, it had been extraordinarily difficult not to think about John when they were apart, and easy enough to ignore the pain when they were together. John had been careful with him since that first morning – much to Sherlock's dismay – but that hadn't stopped everything altogether.

"Okay," John murmured. "Get in."

With his partner behind him, the bathtub wasn't quite long enough to accommodate his tall frame, but they made do, adjusting their positions until they were both comfortable. Sherlock settled between John's legs, back pressed against John's chest, sunk low enough to rest the back of his head on his partner's shoulder. It was far less spacious than his own bath – which fit three people comfortably – but he enjoyed the intimacy of it.

The air was heavy and smelled of eucalyptus, and the heat seeping into his muscles eased the ache to more comfortable levels. Sherlock closed his eyes, focussing on the sensations of John's body and the hot water.

A light kiss was pressed against his temple; Sherlock answered it with a faint hum. He felt a smile against his skin and fingers in his hair, combing in a slow, repetitive motion. John would pause every so often to work small circles with his thumb. Sherlock let the sensation take over, relaxing even more, until his hazy concentration was narrowed to the feel of John's fingers, the pressure of his thumb, the faint scratch of fingernails against his skull.

A small, unbidden noise escaped his lips when John's thumb dug into the base of his skull, and his partner stopped immediately, his hand still tangled in Sherlock's hair.

"Not good?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock growled. "_Perfect_." John chuckled and resumed the massage; Sherlock sank down further and turned his head to give him better access.

Beneath the drowsy content was a mild surprise at how enjoyable this really was. He'd never done this before – at least not precisely this. He and Charles had shared baths, relaxing against each other, touching languidly, but sooner or later, it had always led to sex. He'd never seen any point of physical intimacy with Charles – or any of his lovers – for any other reason.

Sherlock's list of things he wanted to do to and with John grew longer with almost each passing minute, and the thought of taking John to bed and reintroducing him to the pleasures of having someone inside of him sent a faint shudder down his spine. But there was something pleasant about this simplicity as well, the lack of expectation, the unspoken permission to just enjoy this. He wanted to explore the feeling more closely, but the combined sensations of the hot water, the faint aroma of pine, and John's fingers in his hair made it difficult to concentrate. He was aware he was half-asleep, held securely by John's right arm, buoyed gently by the water.

"Sherlock." The sound of his name was little more than a murmur, a soft vibration against his skin. He responded with a faint hum, aware of the cool-to-warm flow of the water when John shifted them slightly. "Time to get out."

John didn't rush them, keeping up the soothing circles with his thumb, waiting for Sherlock to rouse himself enough to climb out. He was patted dry and shuffled into a t-shirt and sweatpants, both of which smelled of John. The doctor guided him into the bedroom and cocooned them both under the duvet, creating a small hollow of warmth.

He fell asleep with John wrapped snugly around him.


	94. Chapter 94

The opposite of boredom wasn't interest.

It was elation.

_Elation_ – bright and cold. Like silver. Like his laughter.

Like diamonds.

It made his mind hum, his blood, his body. Every breath, every sound, every heartbeat – they were all perfect notes, vibrating in harmony and it hadn't faded since last night; it had grown _stronger_.

He could _feel_ it in the air, hear it in his soul. The thought made him laugh again, catching Sebastian's momentary attention but no worry. _What soul?_ If he'd ever had one he'd dispensed of it, sold it, dropped it, forgotten it along the way. No baggage, no chains, no strings.

Except the ones he pulled.

And how he did. All of them, little glimmering, invisible gossamer wires as fine as silk, as strong steel. _A spider at the centre of a web_, Sherlock had once told him. They both were, but only Jim knew how far his web extended, which strands led back to him, which ones could be cut without letting him fall.

Oh the fall.

_The Falls of Reichenbach_. The police would be scrambling soon, soon – either his people or Sherlock's would alert them first, it scarcely mattered whose. They would have a forged painting on their hands, the real one still missing. Gone. A significant sum of money for him, a secret, prized possession for someone else.

He owed Sherlock.

He owed Sherlock _so much_. There were debts to collect. All he'd wanted was to _play_. He'd been so patient, waited so long. Now it was time for new rules – _his_ rules. There were so many things to do, so many places to start. So many keys that could unlock so many things – treasure, doors, people.

So many ways a man could fall.

* * *

><p>John hoped like hell Sherlock wasn't going to include him on whatever meeting he was planning. He could handle the idea of what Sherlock did – he could even deal with the adrenaline that came with being involved with some of it – but he had no idea how he'd hold up dropped into the middle of it with people who did this for a living and saw nothing odd about it.<p>

Especially with Charles there.

He'd been getting ready to leave that morning when Sherlock had insisted he stay. So he had. Reluctantly, and with some confusion. When he'd asked why, Sherlock had simply waved a hand and told him not to worry about it.

He doubted it was to check up on Gabriel; the younger man wasn't an unwilling patient and John could see him whenever he needed. He'd chatted with both Gabriel and Cheryl when they'd arrived – although it felt strange to share a companionable coffee with a woman who killed people for a living and whom John strongly suspected had been the cause of Gabriel's brother's death.

Treating it like dealing with superior officers helped – these were men and women whose jobs entailed controlling the lives of those below them. If he ignored the murky morality that implied, it was easy enough to treat Sherlock's people as normal human beings.

Until Charles arrived.

* * *

><p>John wasn't sure what he'd been expecting – or dreading. A confrontation? Tension?<p>

Maybe a certain degree of discomfort between two men who had stopped sleeping together abruptly.

Maybe animosity directed at him for being the cause.

Maybe he'd even expected Charles to look as though he'd lost something.

He hadn't expected the warm greeting followed by the exchange of kisses on each cheek, both Sherlock and Charles well within the other's space and comfortable there. It lasted just a moment – not nearly long enough for John to read anything into it, but more than long enough for him to feel pinned to his chair by shock at the casual intimacy.

Until Cheryl stood and was greeted the same way. Gabriel rose, balanced on one crutch to shake Charles' hand and exchange the same perfunctory kisses, leaving John even more stunned.

It was one thing to hear Sherlock speak so offhandedly about his physical relationship with his former lover; it was another to _see_ them both treat it as if it were so unimportant.

But a pair of dark, knowing eyes raked over him, carrying away god only knew what. John managed a nod and got a raised eyebrow and an appraising look in return. Charles' expression contained no hint of what he was thinking, but John got the distinct impression he was being measured and judged – although _how_ he was evaluated was impossible to tell.

He was saved from it all by Irene's sudden arrival, swooping down on him with predatory gracefulness, dislodging his shock into confusion. The attention that had been centred on Charles was unwound suddenly and rewrapped so expertly around her that John barely noticed she'd done it until Sherlock pulled him aside, both of them forgotten in the brightness cast by a woman who had lived most of her life in the limelight.

"You don't have to worry," Sherlock murmured, lips moving against John's ear. He was aware of the wall against his back, but much more aware of his partner's body against his, all lean warmth contained by silk and wool, the smell of shampoo and cologne not quite masking the scent of _them_ that still lingered after a leisurely night in bed.

"He's French," Sherlock continued. "They don't have the same attitude towards personal space as we do here. Neither do I, for that matter."

John managed a nod. Any reply was lost by the distraction of how close Sherlock was, of exactly where they were touching, of precisely how good he smelled.

_Get it together, Watson_, he told himself. The laughter from the living room reminded him of how poorly hidden they were – which did nothing to dampen the desire.

"The only way Charles would find himself back in my bed is if you wanted him there," Sherlock murmured. The shock let John focus somewhat and he got in another nod, licking suddenly dry lips.

"Yeah. I know."

"I know you know," Sherlock said. "I still intend to prove it to you later."

Before John could answer, his chin was being tilted up, and Sherlock's lips met his. The flicker of a tongue against his bottom lip made him open his mouth and any awareness of the people in the next room vanished when Sherlock erased all the remaining space between them, fitting his tall body perfectly against John's. A moan was caught and swallowed; Sherlock's tongue flickered over his, teasing and coaxing until he drew it into his own mouth to suck lightly. John felt his knees weaken, grateful for the wall that caught the weight he could no longer fully support.

He couldn't contain the whimper of protest when Sherlock pulled away and felt the slow stretch of a smile against his own lips.

"I'll text you when I'm finished here."

"Yeah," John agreed. "Okay."

Another quick kiss and Sherlock was gone, striding back into the living room as though nothing had happened, his voice calm and level as he broke up the conversation with the reminder of work to be done. John slipped out the door to the sounds of people settling down, leaned against the wall in the common corridor and managed to catch his breath.

* * *

><p>"Irene. You had one of your less public meetings if I'm not mistaken."<p>

"Yes. He was extremely helpful," Irene said. "I know what he likes."

"Don't you always?" Charles asked.

"In some cases, what they don't," she replied to a quick grin from him. "One of Jim's – although he thinks I have no idea. Better men have tried to deceive me."

"And have failed," Cheryl murmured.

"One of the things he likes is showing off. He told me this email was going to change the world." Her phone was passed from her hand to his – a level of trust that no one else in the room, nor anyone else anywhere, Sherlock suspected, had ever earned. "It's obviously a code, and only part of it. Fortunately, I happen to know one of the best cryptographers in the world."

The others didn't fall away so much as fade, steady presences that stilled into familiar background information: Gabriel on the couch, foot propped on the coffee table, crutches beside him, watching sharply, curiously. Irene sat next to him, ankles crossed, eyes on the phone rather than on his face, her trust always tenuous in these situations. Charles across from him, waiting, not quite bored, not quite interested – yet. Cheryl beside Charles, cross-legged, curious but removed, never quite one of them, never quite not.

On the screen two columns of letters and numbers: always only two letters, and strings of three or four digit numbers. Always two sets of numbers per pair of letters – a jumble of information useless at first glance until _there_ and _there_ were patterns. _J_ and _M _the most common first letters. _W, J_, and _M _the most common second letters. No numbers above 2345, no negative numbers. Ending numbers always in multiples of sixty. But the overlaps were odd – there were too many and their patterns didn't make sense – unless…

"It's not a code, it's a schedule."

"A schedule is going to change the world," Gabriel murmured, arching an eyebrow.

"Jim's world," Sherlock corrected. "These are twenty-four hour schedules, so not typical day jobs. There's some margin for error, but I think these are security personnel rotas."

"But for where?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Irene, who gave her head a small shake as he handed the phone back. No need for a copy for himself, the image was etched into his memory, as clear in his mind as it had been for his eyes.

"We'll find out," Sherlock said. "Charles has the best access to that right now. Have your new secretary look into it. Jim's hiding information within information – but not deeply enough."

"Of course," Charles murmured, tipping his head in assent.

"How soon can you see him again without arousing suspicion?" Sherlock asked, gaze turning to Irene.

"Oh, he does love to lord my presumed ignorance over me. I think he enjoys it almost as much as the whip. Which I broke last time, by the way."

"Buy a new one as a business expense," Sherlock replied, a faint smile creeping onto his lips. "Feel free to use it on him as much as necessary."

* * *

><p>"Is it done?"<p>

The flat was quieter now, with Irene and Charles gone, leaving only Gabriel on the couch and Cheryl still curled up in her chair.

"It's done," she replied. Her face betrayed nothing – not through lack of effort but because there was nothing to show. Sherlock understood the distinction between business and personal sentiment perfectly, but there were some complications between Cheryl and Sebastian. Nothing unseemly – at least not on her part – but respect itself could be a confounding factor.

"Can you do it?"

"Pulling a trigger is surprisingly easy," she replied. There was a faint snort from Gabriel; her brown eyes slid to him but Sherlock ignored his associate in favour of gauging her reaction. Still calm, still assured, meeting his gaze head on.

No hesitation.

She'd often impressed upon him how important it was not to hesitate.

"What do you think he'll do?"

"He won't run and he won't turn."

"Loyalty can be a dangerous thing," Sherlock commented.

"Danger can be a tool. A powerful one."

"And we use whatever tools are given to us," Sherlock said.

"Or make our own," Gabriel murmured.

"Does he suspect?"

"No," Cheryl replied. "It's forbidden fruit. He wants what he can't have – because Jim won't let him have it."

"Doesn't play well with others," Gabriel commented and Cheryl gave a huff that was half a chuckle. "What would you do if he was in your flat?"

"I wouldn't miss," Cheryl said.

* * *

><p>"Something else?" Sherlock enquired, returning to the living room where Gabriel had made no move to get up.<p>

"Unrelated," the younger man said. "But you requested the name of John Watson's first and last boyfriend before you. Daniel Hughes. Doctor Daniel Hughes, actually. He's a surgeon at University Hospital Lewisham. I've just emailed you his schedule for the week, should you want to pay him a visit."


	95. Chapter 95

John swallowed nervously as the darkness enveloped him.

He could have blinked his eyes open and seen the light filtering into the edges of his vision, but he kept them closed, focusing instead of the feel of warm breath against his cheek and skilled fingers putting a slight pressure on the back of his skull.

"All right?" Sherlock murmured in his ear. John barely hesitated before nodding.

"Yeah," he breathed. There was a brush of lips against his skin and Sherlock's voice, low and deep:

"If you change your mind, take it off."

"I'll be fine," John replied and there was a faint puff against his skin, a quiet chuckle, and he could almost feel Sherlock's smile.

It had been a long time since he'd done this.

Unable to see, John concentrated on what he could feel. The silk was soft against his skin, the knot at the back of his head just tight enough to hold the scarf in place without being uncomfortable. The air around him was the perfect temperature but he felt warm and the realization that he must be flushing made the pulse in his neck beat harder. There was another low hum of approval and John turned his head slightly toward where he thought Sherlock was.

The soft music playing in the background was soothing but made it harder to hear Sherlock's movements. John realized abruptly he was listening like he was on duty, trying to scout out his partner's position based on breathing and the shift of fabric. He exhaled slowly, letting the tension go, and heard a corresponding hum of approval.

"Good," Sherlock murmured, and John turned his head again, a moment before he felt long-fingered hands cupping his knees, exerting a gentle pressure. He spread his legs, and Sherlock settled between them, hands sliding up to cover John's. Another twinge of nervousness faded when Sherlock brushed their lips together.

The touch was light, little more than a whisper, and John could taste the faint tang of wine on Sherlock's breath. He leaned forward a bit, uncertain as to how close Sherlock had stayed after drawing away. A warm breath ghosted over his skin and Sherlock kissed him again, pulling back then moving forward, never going any deeper than a soft touch.

John tried to free his hands, but Sherlock's fingers tightened over his. Without intending to, John gave a quiet huff and felt Sherlock's lips stretch into a smile against his own.

"Trust me, John," he murmured. John let out another slow breath and nodded. Sherlock was still smiling when they kissed again.

Sherlock kept them there for ages, slowly deepening the kiss until all of John's concentration was evaporated under the sensation of Sherlock exploring his mouth. His tongue was tracing the inside of John's cheeks and the back of his teeth unhurriedly, unconcerned – the taste of wine was stronger now, mixed with something spicy Sherlock had eaten at dinner.

John could feel his partner almost touching him despite the fact that the only points of contact were their hands and lips – a heat against his legs spreading upwards. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, brushing the blindfold with his nose, and silk shifted against John's skin, sending a faint shudder down his spine. He flexed his hands again and Sherlock released him, allowing John to tangle his hands into his partner's dark hair. He pulled Sherlock closer, fingers sliding through soft curls. H is breath hitched slightly when Sherlock's hands traced upwards, skimming over his hips and along his chest.

Cool air brushed just beneath the hollow at the base of his throat when Sherlock slid the top button of John's shirt free. Hands trailed down again, tracing the hem of John's jumper around his waist to his back and the slight smile that curled on his lips into their kiss told John his faint shudder hadn't gone unnoticed. Sherlock dragged the jumper up, and John pulled away just long enough to shrug it off, meeting Sherlock in a fierce kiss as soon as he was free.

"Shh," Sherlock murmured against his lips, drawing back just far enough to break the kiss. John managed to swallow and nod before Sherlock was kissing him again, slowly, tongue sliding over John's, teasing it, as his long fingers undid the rest of the buttons on the doctor's shirt. With each one, he rubbed the pad of his thumb into the thin cotton of the t-shirt John was wearing underneath. The doctor felt a flash of regret at so many layers – he'd have to pull away again to get the t-shirt off.

The shirt slid along his arms and was gone, and Sherlock was tugging his t-shirt off before kissing him again. John tangled his hands in his partner's hair, pulling him as close as he could, then let go, popping the buttons quickly on Sherlock's silk shirt, skimming his hands along bare skin to push the halves apart and catching a low moan. He felt Sherlock shrug the shirt off and shift to put it aside without ever breaking contact. John ran his hands greedily up Sherlock's chest, trying to memorize with his fingers what he couldn't see with his eyes. Sherlock's skin was smooth, unmarked by scars the way John's was.

He slid his hands over Sherlock's shoulders even as his partner shifted, exerting a gentle but inexorable pressure, pushing John carefully onto his back. John managed to manoeuvre himself so that he was lying full length on the couch, the leather warm against his skin. He'd expected it to be cold and slippery but it was neither – nor did his bare skin stick to it uncomfortably. The vague surprise was overwhelmed by the feel of Sherlock kneeling between his legs, braced carefully and still kissing him, hands roaming over exposed skin, skimming over his scar without pausing or changing pressure, as if there was no difference. John tried to tug him down, but Sherlock resisted, keeping the kiss slow as he let his hands drift downward to the waistband of John's jeans.

John arched upward, moaning when Sherlock flattened his palm against his growing erection, rough denim and soft cotton rasping over sensitive skin. He rocked his hips, trying to increase the contact, and Sherlock accommodated him, pressing harder, massaging deeply. John broke their kiss to moan, the sound loud to his ears, drowning the soft music in the background. His fingers tightened on Sherlock's back as he dropped his head, feeling the warm brush of lips against his neck, the faint scrape of teeth.

He was aching by the time Sherlock lightened his grip. Even that barely-there sensation sending flares across John's nerves, making his breath catch in his chest. The button slid free and Sherlock was drawing the zip down with agonizing slowness, keeping the pressure too light, chuckling when John caught his lower lip between his teeth and arched into the contact.

"Sherlock–" he managed and there was another quiet murmur of laughter against his neck. Sherlock hummed, twisting his wrist, slipping a hand into John's pants to curl his fingertips so the very edges of his nails brushed over John's erection.

John gasped, scrabbling at his partner's back, and Sherlock changed his grip, palming John lightly before closing long fingers around his cock. John tried to catch a cry between his teeth, not quite succeeding, screwing his eyes shut beneath the blindfold as Sherlock began to stroke him lazily. His grip was too light, too restricted by John's clothing, and the doctor squirmed, trying for more space, more friction. Sherlock hummed, the vibrations purring against John's skin. He raised his head, tongue tracing the contour of John's ear before dipping in, moving with the same languid rhythm as his hand. John gasped again, arching his head to the side, and Sherlock followed him effortlessly, never faltering.

"Oh– god–" John managed, voice breaking slightly, followed by a groan of protest when Sherlock withdrew his hand. A moment later, his jeans and pants were being pulled down, and he kicked them aside quickly, toeing off his socks, fingers fumbling to find the waist of Sherlock's trousers. His partner caught his hands, murmuring something indistinct, and John let out a hard breath, shaking his head.

"It's all right," Sherlock murmured and John swallowed on an impatient protest, forcing himself to breathe more slowly, relaxing as much as he could against the couch. Sherlock's hands were sliding up and down his sides in slow, soothing strokes, his lips finding John's again in another deep, unhurried kiss.

He shifted just right, and could feel the brush of wool and silk against his skin. I t made him moan into the kiss. Sherlock was still braced above him; John wanted none of that – he wanted Sherlock on top of him, nothing between them.

He was suddenly cold as Sherlock drew away and reached out instinctively, eyes fluttering open beneath the silk blindfold, muscles tensing to pull him to seated. Sherlock's hands were on his shoulders, slightly more pressure on the right than the left, laying him down again. John went, but closed his hands over Sherlock's forearms, unwilling to relinquish the contact.

There was a faint sigh edged with laughter, and Sherlock twisted his arms lightly, catching John's wrists and pulling them gently forward. John's frown vanished when he felt the contrast of cool skin and smooth fabric, fingers fumbling slightly before he found the button and zip of Sherlock's trousers. He peeled them off, huffing impatiently as Sherlock took a moment to divest himself of the rest of his clothing, hands curling around Sherlock's bare waist, tugging. A dip of pressure next to each shoulder meant Sherlock's hands bracing him on either side of John and the doctor felt a warm breath against his skin the moment before Sherlock kissed him again.

John pressed his hands into the small of Sherlock's back, feeling the flex and tense of muscles as his partner resisted, making him growl in protest. There was a faint creak of leather as Sherlock changed position, lowering himself carefully.

John gasped, breaking their kiss slightly, arching up even as he wound his legs around Sherlock's waist, fingers scrabbling, trying to pull Sherlock closer. John thrust harder when Sherlock lowered himself all the way down, blindly catching his partner in another kiss, aching for more even more contact.

Then Sherlock's hands were somehow on his ankles, tugging his legs apart, putting unwanted space between them. John groaned and tensed his thigh muscles, pushing back, but Sherlock's palms slid to his knees, holding his legs spread with little effort.

"Easy, John, easy," his partner murmured, voice low in the small space. John groaned again, shaking his head, and felt the rumble of laughter in Sherlock's chest. He relented, doing his best to relax. Sherlock kissed him again lightly, hands resuming their slow, soothing strokes when John reluctantly dropped his legs.

Sherlock spent ages kissing, touching him everywhere – everywhere except where John wanted it most – finding all of the places that made him squirm, that made him sigh, that made his mind go so blank that he could barely remember to breathe. With the blindfold on, each brush of fingertips or lips was heightened, leaving him gasping, certain he couldn't hold off any longer. Then Sherlock would pull away, hands stroking in long, slow motions again, until John could ease back from sheer desperation. Any coherent thought abandoned him with the slightest pressure from Sherlock's hands on his hips, holding him in place, refusing John's wiggling encouragement for more. The whisper of hair that almost always followed lips was like little pinpricks, drawing goose bumps up on his skin. Every so often, Sherlock would nuzzle him lightly and inhale – the idea that Sherlock was smelling him was so erotic it made John moan, fingers digging into the expensive leather beneath him, head tipping back.

He felt a smile against his sternum and a light kiss before Sherlock's tongue dragged downward. John raised his head, letting it fall back when he remembered he couldn't see, resisting the urge to pull the blindfold off. The slow, feral smile he felt against his skin almost undid him and, when Sherlock dipped his tongue into John's bellybutton, he bit his lip so hard trying not to scream he thought he tasted blood.

Sherlock stayed there, stroking slowly; John could just feel the scratch of stubble against his erection, rough but teasingly light, nowhere near enough stimulation. He tried to shift again but Sherlock held him easily, drawing his tongue in slow, deep circles, tipping his head occasionally for a too-brief moment of pressure. John wanted to cover his mouth – he was moaning steadily now, his voice boarding on hoarse, almost not his own – but his hands wouldn't cooperate, fisting into Sherlock's hair instead, trying to encourage him to move down further. Sherlock only chuckled in response, the sound shooting to John's groin, making him twitch.

"Jesus Christ–" he managed, shifting restlessly, fingers tightening helplessly in his partner's hair. "Sherlock–"

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, and John tried not to sob. "Come with me, John."

"Oh god," John gasped. "Yes please."

Sherlock's laughter was louder this time, but still soft against the low music in the background.

"No, I mean come with me. Get up."

John's brain faltered, but he managed to shake his head, fingernails raking across Sherlock's scalp.

"You've got to be bloody kidding me." There was no way his legs would hold his weight now.

"I'll help you," Sherlock murmured and drew away, the shock of cold air making John jerk, a twinge of pain coursing down his spine. Sherlock had his wrists and was pulling him up carefully, wrapping one of John's arms around waist to steady him.

"Sherlock–"

"I have something for you," Sherlock promised, voice low, nearly indistinct over the hammering of John's pulse in his ears. John managed a gasp, shaking his head, but Sherlock was coaxing him forward, step by step. The carpet felt softer against the soles of his feet than anything had before, the air cool on his body, Sherlock's fingertips, which were still skimming over any available skin, leaving burning little trails down his nerves.

The moment he thought he wouldn't last, Sherlock stopped and there was a rustling of fabric before John was turned gently.

"Sit," Sherlock murmured. "Lie back."

John did as he was told, settling onto his back, spreading his legs, then gasped, almost sitting up but not wanting to pull away from the sudden sensation – cool, smooth, not quite slick, a soft slide against his skin that made him close his eyes under the blindfold, his already sensitized nerves blazing again.

"Ohmygod," he gasped, fingers curling into the fabric.

"Silk," Sherlock said, a smile in his voice. John flattened his hands, feeling the fabric against his palms, the same sensation covering his face.

He'd never even so much as slept on silk sheets.

"We'll ruin them," he managed, part of his mind screaming at him to shut up. Sherlock's answering laughter and a dip on the bed was enough to chase the thought from his mind.

"I'll buy more," he replied, and John felt the warmth as his partner leaned past him, heard the slide of a drawer being opened. The snap of a cap made his cock twitch and he whimpered without meaning to, tilting his head back, trying to suck in enough air. There was a faint puff as the tube was tossed aside and Sherlock was stroking John's thigh, just enough pressure to encourage him to spread his legs more. He needed no prompting, obeying hurriedly, and felt the tip of Sherlock's nose brush the hollow of his hip.

"_Please_," John begged, one hand curling into Sherlock's hair again. Sherlock nuzzled him gently, still stroking his thigh, pressing the pad of a cool, slicked finger against John's opening. He bit his lip against a shout as Sherlock pushed inside – he was so ready, and Sherlock had used enough lube that he almost didn't feel it, then he remembered _why _his partner was an observational genius when Sherlock curled the tip of his finger just so.

John nearly screamed, a hoarse, cut off sound in the silence of the bedroom. Sherlock rubbed lightly, drawing out desperate whimpers before moving to soothe the muscle. John shifted against the silk sheets, the sensation coiling in his groin, matching the teasing pressure of Sherlock's finger inside of him. He moaned again, twisting his head side to side, then arched up hard when Sherlock leaned down to take John into his mouth.

He couldn't stop the noises he made then as Sherlock sucked him lazily, moving vaguely out of sync with his finger before slipping another one in, then a third, stroking and circling his prostate. John clawed frantically at his partner's hair, his other hand fisting into the silk that shifted with him as he writhed. One knee was curled over Sherlock's shoulder now, heel dragging along his partner's back with each thrust, the other leg shifting restlessly as if that would coax more pressure.

The blindfold no longer mattered – everything was dark around the edges, his focus narrowing until there was nothing but the hot slide of Sherlock's mouth, the cool press and stretch of his fingers, and the silk underneath him. It was just short of being enough, all maddening pleasure that made his toes curl and his fingertips tingle, always shy of pushing him over the edge. John could hear himself through the haze, reduced to incoherent pleas until his voice broke apart into breathless little sobs.

The shock of Sherlock pulling away almost undid him completely, but before he could even draw a shaky breath to protest there were lips trailing up to meet his and he tasted himself on Sherlock. The mattress shifted slightly as Sherlock did; the kiss was broken to the soft sound of skin against skin, then there was a hand on the knee he had over his partner's shoulder as Sherlock pushed in slowly.

"Breathe, John," Sherlock murmured against his lips, and John sucked in a deep, panting gasp, hands scrabbling for purchase on anything, finding the rungs of the headboard and pushing back against the resistance as Sherlock eased in further.

He'd forgotten what he it felt like and for a precarious, breathless second, it was too much – too much heat, too much sensation, too much everything. With the blindfold on and the rest of his senses heightened, he could feel each little movement. John's legs shifted, fighting contradictory urges to push Sherlock away and pull him closer.

He tilted his hips, and swore.

"Easy, easy," Sherlock said. "Too much?"

"_More_," John growled. There was an answering murmur, and he gasped, arching toward his partner as Sherlock pushed in the rest of the way, hands on John's hips, holding him gently. He wanted to say something, but words and his voice had abandoned him. Sherlock was too still, letting him adjust; John managed to find his hair with one hand and tugged desperately.

"Good?" Sherlock murmured, lips trailing along the line of his jaw.

"Good. Now. Yes. ," John managed, screwing his eyes shut when Sherlock began to move with slow, shallow thrusts. He twisted his head side-to-side, wrapping his legs around his partner's waist, and Sherlock seemed to get the hint, bracing himself and pushing deeper, angling himself just right.

Fumbling, John tried to work a hand between them, stopped by a hush and Sherlock's fingers closing over his wrist, pushing his arm gently over his head. The moan of protest turned deeper when Sherlock released him to wrap his fingers around John's cock, knuckles brushing his abdomen with each stroke.

When he thought he couldn't take more, when it seemed all of the sensations wouldn't stop but would leave him dangling on the edge forever, whimpering and begging, Sherlock twisted his wrist, dragging a thumb over the head, and thrust hard. John screamed, a ragged sound he barely heard, arching all the way off the bed, fingers clutching desperately at anything they could as he came, helpless against Sherlock inside of him. and Sherlock's hand stroking him mercilessly so that his orgasm wouldn't stop, wave after shuddering wave rolling through him until nothing else existed but the shocks of pleasure searing up his spine.

John felt the world go black, felt his breath hitch in his chest as he arched up further, managing a desperate whimper before the near agony peaked and eased off, leaving him slumped against the cool silk sheets, trembling as little shivering aftershocks coursed through him. He tried to move as he sucked in a deep breath but he was heavy suddenly, legs still wrapped around Sherlock's waist, fingers gripping his partner's back, as Sherlock worked him slowly through the last of it.

He groped blindly, and there was a hand on his cheek, pushing the blindfold up and off as he tugged weakly on Sherlock's curls, pulling him into a clumsy, sated kiss.

John's eyes fluttered, alternating black behind his eyelids and the light of the room, until he managed to keep them open, focusing on his partner.

"Shh, John," Sherlock murmured.

"You must be–" John started, vaguely surprised by how thick his voice sounded. Sherlock kissed him, lips against a sweaty, salty temple, interlacing their fingers.

"I can be very patient when I want to be. Take your time."

John managed a nod and sucked in another deep breath as Sherlock's lips trailed lightly down his jaw. He shifted on the sheets, vision flickering again at the soft shift and slide of the silk on his sensitized skin. The contrast of colours seemed so vivid it almost hurt; squinting slightly, John realized the sheets were black.

He spread a hand on the fabric, Sherlock almost forgotten despite the continued kisses.

"Black," he murmured. It seemed an odd choice of colour.

"I thought you'd look good on it," Sherlock replied, drawing away a bit, and John turned to meet his gaze. His partner's normally light eyes were almost completely engulfed, his pale skin tinged with a flush that spread across his cheeks and down his chest. His dark curls were a mess, dishevelled by John's fingers, small strands clingy damply to his temples.

"Come on," John said as the sight undid him. "Your turn."

Sherlock ignored him, moving with another long, slow stroke, the muscles in his thighs quivering. When he pushed all the way back in, moaning deeply against John's neck, the doctor wrapped an arm around his waist, dropped his hand and pressed the tip of a finger into his partner.

He was expecting the shock but not the bite, giving a hoarse shout when Sherlock's teeth closed over the skin where neck met shoulder. Sherlock's grip eased and John felt a warm breath ghost over newly bruised skin, felt the shudder that ran down his partner's spine at the effort of keeping himself under control against the twin sensations of being inside John and John being inside him.

"Come on, Sherlock," John repeated. "Enough. You've been patient." For emphasis, he pushed his finger in a bit further, making Sherlock's hips buck and drawing low moans from each of them.

"Come on," John whispered again.

Sherlock needed no more convincing. John pulled his hand away to coat it quickly, then slid his finger all the way in. He wasn't a genius, but he was a doctor, and he already knew where to find what he was looking for; when he curled his finger against Sherlock's prostate, his partner's whole body shuddered, a helpless groan escaping swollen lips. He lost his pace as John pressed harder, burying his face in John's neck, thrusting as hard as he could. John clenched around him and Sherlock nearly sobbed as he came, muscles tensing to push him in deeper. John held him there, rubbing his prostate almost mercilessly, groaning as Sherlock's orgasm swept through him, little fluttery electric shocks. He drew it out as long as he could, listening to Sherlock's moans break apart into breathy gasps before he slumped against John, hips twitching once or twice more.

John eased his finger out, holding Sherlock carefully until his breathing began to even, and he raised his head, looking slightly dazed. John's lips twitched into a smile as he felt post-coital stupor begin to creep in around the edges of his muscles. He groaned softly when Sherlock pulled out and let himself be manipulated on the sheets, the fabric soothing against his skin where once it had been shocking. With sated, drowsy movements, Sherlock fitted their bodies together, lips finding John's in a slow kiss. John kissed back, snuggling as close as he could, drifting off to sleep with the feel of Sherlock's mouth on his.


	96. Chapter 96

John was greeted at Gabriel's door by a short blond woman and a small dog that stood in front of her, not quite growling, but with the definite promise of growling if necessary.

"Sam, sit." The dog obeyed promptly, still eyeing John suspiciously. "You must be Doctor Watson. I'm Sandra Casey. And this is Sam."

"John, please," he said, shaking her hand before crouching down to let the wary dog sniff him. "It's good to finally meet you."

"And you." Sandra smiled, stepping back for him to slip past her into the flat. "Gabe just rang; he's running a bit late, but he told me he was expecting you. Tea?"

"Please," John answered.

"Make yourself at home," Sandra said, waving a hand vaguely toward the living room as she disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a cup for each of them and a plate of biscuits balanced precariously on top of one of the mugs – _not_ HobNobs John noted. The little dog curled up next to Sandra's chair, still watching John carefully.

"I'm glad Gabe's got such a good doctor," Sandra said and John gave a small, dismissive shake of his head. "No, I mean it. He needed someone to keep him focused on his recovery."

"Well, I'm used to doing that," John replied with a quick smile against the rim of his mug.

"He mentioned you used to be a soldier."

"Mm," John agreed. "An army surgeon, yeah. But I got shot."

"Seems to be a common theme around here," she commented dryly. "A private firm doctor is a bit of an odd job after the army."

"Well," John said, wondering how much she knew about Gabriel's job and Sherlock's business. He had the impression that she knew a lot less than he did, but wondered if she was sizing him up, each of them waiting for some hint that would allow them do more than skirt the topic. "You know how it is. I knew someone who knew someone. What about you?"

"It's a bit dull, really," Sandra said with a smile, and John found himself realizing that in another lifetime, she'd have been precisely his type: cute, pretty smile, energetic. Or, as Harry would have put it, 'female'. He mentally rolled his eyes at his sister's scolding voice. "I graduated from Bart's, got my job at St. Mary's and I've been there ever since."

"I trained at Bart's," John said. "Bit before your time, though."

"I loved it there. It was hard to leave, but St. Mary's is fantastic. Keeps me busy."

"The army kept me busy, too," John chuckled.

"This job doesn't?"

He gauged his reply before he gave it, treading carefully, hoping to steer the conversation back to firmer ground. Sherlock was amazingly frank with him – but even then, there were things he refused to share. Assuming it was the same with Gabriel and Sandra could be dangerous. He had no desire to be the one to ruin anything.

"In a different way," John said. "I'm still always on call, but it's not the same – I know I won't be hauled out of bed in the middle of the night to do emergency surgery. Definitely not as busy as Bastion. But it gives me time to myself, which is a nice change after almost fifteen years. No landmines. No artillery fire. Some actual peace and quiet once in awhile."

"You don't get bored?"

John shook his head, putting his tea mug aside, the movement earning him a brief glance from Sam, who was still curled up at Sandra's feet and half napping.

"I can always find something to do – helping Mrs. Hudson, my landlady, around the house, that sort of thing. Gives me time whenever Sherlock isn't working, and for my friends. One of them was ill recently. I was keeping an eye on him." He picked his words carefully, watching her reaction without trying to look too intent.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Is he all right?" Sandra asked, with no apparent hidden suspicions.

"Yeah," John replied. "He had the flu. I just wanted to make sure he took proper care of himself."

She chuckled against the rim of her mug, giving her head a brief shake.

"An uphill battle."

"You don't have to tell me," John said with a grin. "Has Gabriel been taking care of himself when I'm not around?"

"Probably not as much as you'd like, but better than most. Speak of the devil," she added at the sound of the door unlocking. Sam perked up, ears standing straight, and leapt up when Gabriel came into view, her tail wagging furiously.

Gabriel's expression brightened as he crossed the room, relaxing into a smile as he leaned down to give Sandra a kiss.

"Sorry about that, John," the younger said as he shook off his crutches and sank down onto the couch next to Sandra. "I hope you have good news for me."

"We'll see," John said. "Your x-rays look good, but I want to have a look at your leg."

It was a familiar routine by now, but John made sure to check carefully, watched by three sets of eyes and prodded gently now and then by a little wet nose. Gabriel's reactions were on par with what he'd suspected from the x-rays, so when John sat back on his heels, it was with a smile.

"Half weight," he announced. "You'll still be on the crutches, but you can walk on it again."

"Oh thank god," Gabriel muttered, relaxing against the couch cushions.

"You'll still need to be careful when the boot's off – don't stand on it in the shower yet. In three or four weeks, you should be off the crutches, but you'll still be in the boot for a while."

"I don't care," the younger man said adamantly. "It'll be nice to be able to walk again without exhausting myself."

"You'll need to take it slow," John warned. "It might not feel like it, but you've lost stamina."

"What about work?"

"You need to get eight hours of sleep a night – aside from that, it's up to you now."

"Thank you," Gabriel said with a grin. For the first time, John caught a hint of the younger man without an injury. His own experience had turned the tables for him, forcing him to live the experience from the other side. How quickly he'd forgotten, and it was startling to realize he'd never known Gabriel without the wound.

"A year from now, maybe even six months, it'll be almost like this never happened. If you keep taking care of yourself."

"I promise," Gabriel said, and John caught the faint gleam of laughter in Sandra's eyes.

"Make sure he does."

"Oh, I will," she said.

John bid them goodnight and Sandra saw him out, accompanied by Sam, who watched him with suddenly doleful eyes. John gave the dog a final scratch behind the ears before making his way from the building. It was a bit of a walk to the nearest tube station but the evening air wasn't too cold and he could do with the exercise.

He was halfway there when a text from Jamie derailed his travel plans.

_Get home now._

* * *

><p>Jamie was pacing the common corridor when John . A week of rest had undone most of the physical trauma, although he still wore faint smudges beneath his eyes.<p>

"What's going on?" John demanded, as Jamie extended his phone. He was startled by Tricia's voice coming through the speaker of his friend's phone.

"John?"

"Tricia?" He tucked his phone away and took Jamie's as it was extended to him. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, a wry note in her disembodied voice. "He's had me on the line for twenty minutes waiting for you."

"What is it?" John asked, her reassurance doing little to assuage the anxiety that had settled in his stomach.

"New orders," she replied, and John felt the grip tighten, rooting him to the spot. "My tour's ending earlier than expected."

"_What?_"

"I'll be home on the nineteenth of May."

John glanced up to see Jamie grinning fiercely at him. He was rooted to the floor, but felt like he was floundering without a lifeline, uncertain if this was a dream that would make him feel heavy and colourless when he woke up.

"Did they say why?"

"The standard 'increasing tour rotation efficiency'," Tricia replied and John could picture her so clearly – shrugging lightly, delivering such a trite explanation that was so at odds with the staggering revelation that she was coming _home_, that her return was mere weeks away rather than several long months. "A few of us got it, and there will probably be more by the time the week's out."

"But _you're_ coming home," John interjected, feeling the last of the shock give way to giddiness.

"Yes, I'm coming home."

"You are _not_ allowed to get hurt before that. Don't go anywhere or do anything. Don't even stub your toe."

"What am I going to do?" Tricia asked with a grin in her voice. "Stay in my bunk for the next month and a half?"

"If that's what it takes," John said firmly. Jamie huffed soundless, nodding in agreement.

"I promise I won't do anything stupid, and I'll do my best to stay out of trouble," she replied. "I've got to go now; I'm on duty soon. Love you both."

"Be careful!" John warned, and there was an answering chuckle from the other end of the line.

"I will. And I'll see you in six weeks."

* * *

><p>Doctor Daniel Hughes was easy to spot even amidst the sea of other white coats. Sherlock had memorized the doctor's face from the identification photo in his personnel file. The information the hospital kept on its employees wasn't particularly illuminating but had been enough to let Sherlock hack into both Hughes' professional and personal email accounts.<p>

That had been very educational. For a man pursuing so many illicit affairs, Hughes was extremely lax about his computer security. Sherlock had researched every current partner, then sent them each an informative email complete with some of the very revealing pictures Hughes had taken.

Judging by the doctor's easy gait and the slight signs of fatigue around his eyes, he was just coming from an overnight shift and hadn't yet heard from any of his now-enlightened partners.

Inconspicuous in a bomber jacket and jeans, Sherlock ambled after the doctor, ensuring the other man didn't spot him until they'd reached the employee parking garage and Hughes was digging for his keys.

"Doctor Daniel Hughes?"

There was a pause of confusion, a moment of trying – and failing – to place Sherlock as a patient or a patient's family member.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

Sherlock smiled – charming, brilliant, and dangerous.

"You already have." Another pause of confusion, the decision to pretend he recognized Sherlock dismissed. "I have always wanted to see what a complete and utter idiot looks like. Now I know. Do enjoy your day, Doctor. It's bound to be an exciting one."

* * *

><p>He was climbing back into his car when Gabriel's ringtone disrupted the private silence.<p>

"I have something you need to see."

* * *

><p>"What is it?"<p>

Gabriel raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's clothing but didn't comment.

"The email Irene's client provided," he replied, adjusting his monitor slightly as Sherlock circled behind the desk. "I had someone down the line show it to Inspector Dimmock. He thought he recognized the schedule as part of the security rota for Pentonville Prison."

"Who does Jim have in Pentonville?"

"I'm working on it," Gabriel said. "So far, a few low level people – no one worth breaking out."

"Unless they aren't what they seem."

"I'm working on that, too. I'll let you know as soon as I know something."

"Do we have anyone imprisoned there?"

"No one important."

"Everyone is important right now," Sherlock countered. "Get us back in touch. We're willing to pay handsomely for any good information." He paused, fingers drumming on the uncluttered surface of Gabriel's desk. "We're going to need something to throw to the wolves soon. What have we got?"

"There's some art going out of France next week we can stand to lose, and Jim will think it makes Charles look bad."

"Good," Sherlock said with a fierce grin. "Do it."

"I spoke with Irene just before you got here," Gabriel continued. "She's got her client all tied up."

"Have her keep him that way. I want specifics. She must have a new whip by now. Tell her to use it."


	97. Chapter 97

**A/N:** A few chapter ago, someone asked me what Cheryl looks like. Ffn doesn't allow for email addresses or links in reviews and PMs, so I couldn't reply. Anyway, the answer is: I don't really know. All I know is she has brown hair and it's longish to long. I'm terrible at visualizing imaginary people or places in my head, so I am more than happy to take suggestions!

* * *

><p>"Tell me." The barest scrape of nails followed the brush of soft fingertips over rasping stubble.<p>

Jim was going to kill him.

But maybe not if he didn't say anything. He'd been stupid – but she was so stunning and always gave him exactly what he wanted.

He turned toward the touch without meaning to.

"I don't know," he gasped.

"Oh, but I think you do." Her voice was warm like honey, low in the darkness. "You showed me the email, said it would change the world. Tell me how. Tell me when."

"I don't know– I don't–" Cringing as the hand was withdrawn, the only contact he'd had since– he didn't know. Since she'd clicked the cuffs around his wrist with a faint smile and told him she knew who he was.

"You're being wicked," she sighed, warm breath just brushing his lips. "And you know what I do to boys who are wicked."

A cold space between them as she moved, the snap of a whip making him whimper.

"Pity," Adler said. "You always liked this before."

* * *

><p>The faint hum of the television was drowned out by the soft, slow exhalations against his bare chest. Charles smoothed down his lover's tousled hair for a better view of the screen.<p>

The reporter – Greek with a touch of Persian, he thought; a very attractive combination – had chosen his spot well against the crowds of protestors, the Greek flag in the background, snapping in the wind. The close captioning was detailing the arrest of several prominent bankers by the Hellenic Police, with assistance from Interpol.

Dominique stirred, blinking his eyes open and glancing over his shoulder, a brief sigh against Charles' skin.

"My sister's going to be impossible to live with after this," he commented, voice still thick and drowsy with sleep.

"I'm impossible all the time," Charles replied. "Yet here you are."

He felt the soft chuckle reverberate against his chest.

"Do you need to watch this?" Dominique asked.

"Not particularly."

"Then shut it off," his lover murmured, moving up to brush their lips together. "It's depressing. I want to do something fun."

* * *

><p>"Tell me, Sherlock, did you enjoy our little game?"<p>

"A man's life is not a game," Sherlock replied. Across the table, Jim grinned, dark eyes bright, no amount of low lighting could hide the manic glint.

"Of course it is," Jim drawled; one hand wrapped negligently around the stem of the wine glass in front of him. Two perfectly poured glasses sat between them, and it didn't escape Sherlock's attention that it was the same kind they'd shared the last time, the same kind Gabriel had planted in Henry Walsh's flat.

"It always is – you and I both know that. That's what makes us so _special_, Sherlock. You understand that. I can see it, you know. You try to hide it from me, but it's there – and I know you had a good time. _I_ certainly did."

"I'm not here for your amusement, Jim."

"Then why are you here?" Jim asked. "Must be the company. Can't say I blame you, although I do wish you'd call more often. I feel so left out, Sherlock, I really do. We don't spend enough time together, you know. But of course, you do have all your little _whores_."

He managed to keep the flash of shock from his expression but felt it in his stomach, arching an eyebrow coolly to mask any other response.

"And they do love you, don't they? The Frenchman – I must admit, he _is_ pretty. And the woman. Well. I'm sure she's all kinds of fun, if you're into that sort of thing. The puppy, too. Get them when they're young and oh-so-pliable. They do keep you entertained, don't they?

"You and your precious doctor – I must say, you've kept me entertained, running about, following my _clues_, doing _so well_ at our little game. I wish I could say I love when you get a new pet, Sherlock, but really, it's just. So. Boring. Oh don't get me wrong, the game was _fun_. I do love watching you dance. But I'd so much rather you danced with me."

"I prefer to pick my own partners."

"Stubborn, stubborn," Jim tutted. "Tell me, how is James?"

"Much better than you'll find yourself if you ever set a finger on him again."

"But you know, I never did! Don't like to get my hands dirty," Jim sighed, holding them up as though for inspection. "And Sebastian is _very _good with knots. Following orders, too. Do you know, James was the perfect little hostage? So quiet – no whining, no begging, no moaning. Of course, he doesn't really have a choice, but there's something so _refreshing_ about a man who can't talk, isn't there?"

A silence stretched between them, and Jim grinned, a malicious smile on a boyish face, a danger that so many had underestimated to their own detriment.

Or that of others. Sherlock knew from John's updates and a few of his own visits that Jamie was much better. The danger of an infection settling into his lungs had passed, and there seemed to be no permanent damage, but the doctor wasn't willing to take that for granted yet, not in the case of a man who had recently suffered a serious injury.

"Oh you're going to be _dull_," Jim sighed. "It was so much _fun_ and you're going to be _boring_ and _complain_, aren't you? I had high hopes after this, Sherlock, I really did. I thought you'd _see_, but you haven't, have you?"

"People died, Jim."

"Yes," Jim replied lazily, twisting his fingers around the stem of the wine glass. "That's what people do."

"You've made your point."

"I really haven't. You'd see it if I had. You ought to understand, Sherlock. You out of all people. It's _all_ a game. Everyone else just a tiny piece on the board – oh, they think they're important with their problems and their hobbies and their little feuds. Aren't ordinary people _adorable_? But they're here for _us_, Sherlock. Oh don't look like that, you think the same. A masterpiece here, a bank account there – bodies are just another means of keeping score.

"And because you don't want to admit it. You've lost."

"Have I lost?" Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow. "I'd rather thought I'd won. I solved your puzzles; I played your game. We're _done_, Jim."

"No, we're not!" Jim sang, leaning forward with surprising speed. "Oh that's the best part, Sherlock! We're not done!"

"Are we not."

"We're _never_ done, you and I. I do keep saying that it's all a game. Only we're playing by _my_ rules now. Yours are so _boring._"

"You misunderstand," Sherlock said. "We're done because I'm no longer playing."

"Oh, aren't you?" Jim said, affecting a convincing pout, brown eyes downcast, almost pitiable.

"No," Sherlock replied. "I'm not. If you know what's best for you, you'll stop now while you can."

"And what would be the fun in that?" Jim asked.

* * *

><p>"I need to walk."<p>

"All the way?" Gerald asked.

"Yes. Go on without me. I need to get something first."

He retrieved the package of cigarettes he kept hidden in the glove box and watched the car pull away smoothly before setting off in the same direction. Two blocks away he paused to slip into the shadows, closing his eyes as he lit a match and inhaled the acrid smoke into his lungs. A map of the city was easy to visualize; Sherlock could trace Gerald's route without any problems and superimposed his own on top of it. Sticking to the main streets would take more time, taking alleys and small paths would be faster and keep him more alert.

There was a shuddering tightness growing in the back of his mind, a jumpy energy surging along his nerves to his fingers. Warning signs he'd grown used to long ago, that had once driven him to cocaine. Smoking helped with the nicotine and the deep breathing. Moving helped too – although pacing was terrible, walking with a real destination alleviated some if it. He could feel his synapses blazing, all the little connections being made, processing, evaluating, and discarding information as he went.

There was always so much to see – to _observe_. London wasn't a mess of streets and alleys built up over countless generations; it was _alive_, and here was the tenuous moment when he felt too close to the edge of it all. Too close to slipping away, to letting go, to giving into what only seemed appealing in these moments.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Don't chase it, just let it come.

And there it was. Miniscule, vanishing almost as soon as he'd identified it, but it came back, darting like a silvery fish in bright waters. In the middle of a darkened park beneath a pool of lamplight, Sherlock stood stock still, waiting for the balance to come to him.

Jim had got under his skin. One small comment, a throw away taunt, but it sat ill with him. Sherlock turned it over and over in his mind, analyzing it until he could see through it, until it was disassembled and could be rebuilt to make sense. Then he could plan. And with a plan, the world could be realigned to his liking.

* * *

><p>He had never planned for John.<p>

The realization reasserted itself when he was met in the doorway of his own flat by confident surgeon's hand cupping his face and drawing him down enough for warm lips to be pressed against his. The last hour fell away, relief displacing the resolve, the over-wound sensation in his mind uncoiling and beginning to settle lower. John's lips were warm, slightly chapped from a long winter, his fingers and palms dotted with calluses that were small points of pressure on Sherlock's face.

A tongue flickered against his teeth and Sherlock's mouth opened of its own accord, a small moan escaping him as John slipped inside, teasing him. Hands dropped away to wrap around his lapels, pulling him all the way into the flat, the door snapping shut behind them. The heavy fabric was dumped unceremoniously to the floor – Sherlock would normally have been appalled, but there were fingers in his hair, a thumb digging slow circles on the back of his head until he tipped it back, and John could trail kisses along the underside of his jaw, nipping at the pulse point on his neck.

John tilted Sherlock's head down again, catching him in another kiss, stepping back toward the living room, forcing Sherlock to keep up with him. His suit jacket was shed along the way; his belt was unbuckled and slipped off, adding to the short trail of clothing he was leaving behind.

"You," John murmured between kisses, tugging Sherlock's shirt free of his trousers, sliding warm hands against cool skin, digging his thumbs into dense muscle, "Are. Brilliant."

Sherlock moaned as a hand drifted south, palming him through his trousers, managed to plant his own hands on John's shoulders and press back. He felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, his mind fighting itself again – but not the way it had been so recently. Any chill from the walk had evaporated and every nerve was screaming not to stop, to give in and let John do what he wanted, to surrender control and abandon thought. It would work – it always did – but there was a new, unwanted knowledge.

"John. Stop."

A hint of something in John's eyes – not quite hurt but almost, like a cautious hesitancy that hoped for the best but expected the worst.

"Sherlock? You all right?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, and it was only a touch of a lie. "Just give me a moment. There's something I need to tell you."

"And I," John said, kissing him again, "need to thank you."

For Tricia Remsen of course – he wasn't surprised John had figured it out, given what he'd overheard of Sherlock's conversation with Mycroft and the timing of the whole thing.

"I'm cancelling your debt," Sherlock managed in the space between them, unsurprised but still jarred when John froze then pulled away, brown eyes bright with a different kind of shock now.

"What?" he asked.

"Your debt, John. The money you've been repaying me for Harry's loses. You're not paying it anymore."

"Sorry? What?" John repeated. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Everything," Sherlock replied.

"How?"

"It's an obvious power imbalance, and given our personal circumstances, it's inappropriate that we be maintaining a debtor-debtee relationship. To be very frank, I've never paid for sex, nor have I ever been paid for sex. I see no need to introduce the possibility of that perception into– this."

John pulled back a bit more but didn't let go; Sherlock found himself relieved at the continued contact.

"You're worried someone would get the wrong idea? That I'd get the wrong idea?"

"Maybe," Sherlock replied. "I'd rather avoid the potential problem altogether. You owing me money on a professional level isn't conducive to being on equal footing on a personal level. I may not be a first hand expert on romantic relationships, but the need for neither participant to be financially indebted to the other seems self-evident."

There was a brief pause before a slow smile spread across John's lips, lighting his eyes.

"Sherlock, that's not why I'm here," he said.

"Technically it is. Had you never agreed to take the job to repay Harry's debt–"

"I mean _here_," John interrupted. "Right here, in your flat, right now, really wishing you'd shut up and let me shag you. I'm not _here_ because Harry owes you money."

"Owed."

"Owed, then. But I'm not here for any reason other than you. I don't care about the money."

"Then you shouldn't care if I negate the debt."

"You pay me," John sighed. "If you're so worried about appearances all of a sudden, what do you think that says?"

"Tomorrow I'll transfer your direct supervision to Gabriel."

John's grin grew.

"It doesn't matter."

"It might. Someday."

"_I'm_ not worried that you're shagging me as some weird attempt to collect on Harry's debt. I don't think anyone else is, either. If you want to cancel it, Sherlock, that's fine. I know it's chump change to someone like you anyway." The smile vanished, replaced by a serious, almost contemplative expression. "Do you understand I'm here because I want to be?"

"Yes of course," Sherlock replied immediately. There had never been any doubt – reluctance or deception from John would have been obvious.

"Good," John murmured, pulling him into another kiss. "Then let me make you forget about that and give you a proper thank you for the rest."


	98. Chapter 98

"Why is that you men always feel the need to exaggerate to impress us?"

"I take it your client was less than forthcoming?" Gabriel's voice echoed slightly through the speaker, filling the car's dim interior. Outside tinted windows, Dublin slid by in flowing shadows, reflections of buildings and people winking in and out of existence.

"Oh he was. Eventually. But he did play it up for my benefit. A little man with a little life trying to impress a dangerous woman."

"Did he give you anything relevant?"

"Yes, although not nearly as much as I'd hoped. Your new friend at the Met was right – it is a security rota for Pentonville Prison. He also gave me a date: the twenty-first of May. What he did _not_ give me was a link between the date and the schedule."

"He didn't know it," Gabriel said.

"No," Irene mused. "He would have told me. He wasn't nearly as good an actor as he thought he was."

"Anything else?"

"Some names I've followed up on – associates of his. No one at the prison, unfortunately, but one or two here I might be able to persuade to share what they know."

"Where is he now?"

"Alexander's taking out the trash," Irene replied. "It's always so messy. And I've got somewhere to be."

"Be discreet," Gabriel warned.

"When am I not?"

There was a faint chuckle on the other end of the line; Irene let her lips curl into a slight smile. Gabriel rung off, leaving her in the silence of the car, listening to the purr of the engine as they glided through the streets, before gradually slowing in a rough, run down area. Her car – gleaming black with tinted windows and an exclusive insignia – would stand out, but she wasn't worried. The driver was an expert marksman who was always armed. Anyone who tried to gain entry to the back of the car would find themselves regretting their actions more than they had anything else in their lives.

They pulled to a stop behind an already established police barricade, noticed but far enough away enough not to be bothered with.

It wasn't often that she felt pity for the lives of others. People made stupid choices – she was more than guilty of it herself – and paid for it. Her decision to pursue this particular path had not been made in ignorance. She'd spent years learning what to do – not just the techniques, but how to manage her business, how to protect herself.

Not everyone had been given that opportunity.

The girls – she could hardly call them women – being led out by the police, covered with blankets or coats, looked small, terrified, beaten. The fist of anger around Irene's stomach did nothing to disturb the impassive expression on her face.

None of her clients disrespected the strict code of consensual agreement. Neither did she.

If there was a hell, she hoped there was a special circle reserved for people who treated other people as objects, turning dreams of a better life into torture and humiliation.

She snapped photographs on her phone as the suspects were brought out in cuffs, treated roughly by hands that had just treated the girls with such care. _Taste of their own medicine_, she thought. It would be even worse when they were sentenced and in prison.

If they were lucky enough to get that far. Photographs could lead to identities. Identities could lead to much neater – albeit intentionally painful – solutions.

* * *

><p>"Do I only work with idiots?"<p>

But not _with_ – and certainly not _for_. He could feel the distinction blazing in his brain, accompaniment to the burning anger, the solar furnace of _frustration_. There needed to be a better word than that, it was so meek, so _disappointing_. Did absolutely no justice for the need for air, the tight brightness behind his eyes, the vice-grip of rage that had hold of his brain, all of his nerves.

So _stupid_.

Ordinary people. _Adorable._

Disgraceful.

Vile. Loathsome. Little. Worms.

He'd given them _instructions_ and it should have been so _easy_. Bribes could be paid – bribes _had_ been paid – but now there was an empty sound, all that money washing down the drain, gone, taken, used up and for what? Nothing, absolutely nothing. There should have been delays, stalls, misdirections – no investigations whatsoever.

Afghanistan. Afghanistan hadn't been so bad – there had been warning, a carefully honed sense of when untrustworthy peons were becoming greedy, taking more than was necessary, drawing attention to themselves. A few graceful steps back – with his money in hand – had ensured that no one would find him, link him to this, and he'd walked away with his hands clean.

As always.

But Dublin.

His home turf. Dublin, whose streets and alleys and buildings and people belonged to him. _Should have_ belonged to him. Where he'd begun, before circumstances – tall, dark haired, long-coated circumstances – had moved him to London (where there was more reach anyway) but then Dublin – _Dublin_ – had been overrun, infested.

By a _woman_.

By Sherlock, who had sent her.

He wasn't playing, was he? A lie, Jim could see it now, an eye for an eye, but James had been returned, unharmed, and the people in the blast were only nameless cinders – who cared about them?

_This_ wasn't a game. 'Business', Sherlock would say. Business as usual and it was usual, but it was payback and he could hear the mocking laughter like echoes in the distance on a dark street.

"Instructions?" Sebastian asked. His one true ally. How could someone let you down when you'd trained their life to be about you? Couldn't. Not possible. He was patient, waiting, and fingers twitched with the desire to punish, force Sebastian to his knees, see the winces, hear the gasps that couldn't be held behind even the firmest of restraints.

Levers. He knew which to pull to get to Sherlock – _Sherlock_ who was doing the same to him. Just a game indeed – always just a game. Couldn't push Sebastian too far right now – there was a fine line, oh-so-delicate, had to be understood. Too far and the distance couldn't be closed again and they weren't _all_ idiots, the people who worked for him.

At least one wasn't.

"Kill the woman." The words were on his lips but froze there, unmoving, willing themselves to be spoken and kept silent at the same time. Levers, after all. _Kill them all_. But no, _then_ there would be no game, no dance, and this was just an unexpected move, a feint to knock him back and it wouldn't work.

_Kill them all_ it was so sweet but the fall would be so much sweeter.

"Keep them quiet," he said instead.

No one ever got to him. And no one ever would.

Silence was golden and could be bought – but the best way to keep it was to make sure there were no voices to ruin its perfection.

* * *

><p>"You don't need to be nervous," Sherlock said.<p>

John's head shot up, gaze seeking out and finding Sherlock's, holding it with a hard glare.

"I'm not nervous!" he snapped back and saw the glint in his partner's eyes, the tug of a smile on his lips that meant the lie hadn't been even remotely believed.

"Yet we've been standing on the pavement for two minutes while you deliberate over whether or not you're actually going to get into the car. Honestly, John, she's my mother, not the Queen."

"The Queen might be better."

"I'll ask Mycroft. I'm sure he could arrange it."

"Oh no you don't," John muttered.

"Besides, you've already met my brother. I assure you, nothing could possibly be worse."

"She's your mother," John said. "And I'm the man dating her son."

Sherlock arched a dark eyebrow, eyes still gleaming.

"Are you worried she'll think you're corrupting me? I'm almost certain she knows there's nothing left to corrupt. And I'm thirty-two years old, John. More than old enough to be capable of making my own decision."

"She's still your mother," John persisted.

"Mycroft is the one you need to worry about when it comes to familial overprotectiveness."

"Oh _now_ you tell me," John muttered, shoving his cold hands into his pockets. Really, this _was_ stupid. All he had to do was get in the car and then be on his best behaviour. He'd been in the army. Being on his best behaviour was force of habit. He gave a sharp nod and climbed in, deliberately ignoring the quiet chuckle behind him.

"You sure you can be away?" he asked as Sherlock shut them in and leaned forward to rap lightly on the window that separated them from the driver.

"It's Buckinghamshire, John, not the north pole. They do have mobile and internet service. And I have people watching your house, as well as your family. You have nothing to worry about."

_Uh huh_, John thought.

Life with Sherlock was full of firsts, and he mentally crossed off another one now. He'd met plenty of his ex-girlfriends' mothers, but had never met any of Danny's family.

Even if he had, he doubted it would have made him any less nervous about meeting the woman who had raised Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>Gabriel toyed with the idea of playing the tourist – he so rarely had the chance to do so in London – but the crutches made him stand out, even in casual clothing. The attention of the police didn't help; it was unlikely they were keeping that close of an eye on him, but it paid to be on the safe side, especially right now.<p>

The information from one of their men in Pentonville was sparse – an overheard snippet of conversation mentioning the Tower. It would have been useless if not for the date; the twenty-first of May.

A quick check of the time revealed he had a few hours to follow up on it before meeting Sandra. Instinct that had been carefully honed under Sherlock's guidance told him not to delegate this to anyone else. Gabriel finished what he had been working on, then turned his attention to whatever secrets Jim thought the Tower of London held.

* * *

><p>The brawl in the nightclub in Hong Kong left one man dead at the scene, one who was pronounced dead upon arrival at the nearest hospital, and a third who perched acrobatically in the catwalks above the dance floor, watching with a small, satisfied smile as the police arrest the suspected instigators.<p>

* * *

><p>"Most of it is owned by the National Trust." Sherlock's words barely registered past John's shock. He tried not to stare, then realized it didn't matter; no one could see them.<p>

"I knew you were posh, but this is a bit much, isn't he?" he finally managed. Sherlock's chuckle was warm and low, his eyes bright with laughter when John met his gaze.

"We have maybe a third of the house and the gardens," Sherlock said.

"Still," John murmured. And he'd thought his flat was big. "I bet you have servants."

"Are you expecting a battalion of maids and valets? There are some servants to do the cooking and cleaning, but this is hardly Buckingham Palace."

"As close as I'm going to get," John countered.

"The palace is open to the public, you know," Sherlock pointed out. John shook his head and looked away, watching a few curious tourists turn to glance at the car as it passed. They slowed to a stop in front of the main entrance, where a white haired woman was waiting for them. He glanced back at Sherlock to see an expression of warmth on his partner's face that was unlike any other he'd seen.

"Sherlock," the woman said, moving toward him as she opened her arms. Sherlock returned the embrace tightly, kissing her on the cheek before she cupped his face in her hands.

Even if John hadn't known who he was meeting, he'd have only need a single guess to get it right – there was no mistaking who Sherlock took after. His height had probably been inherited from his father, but in everything else, he was his mother's son.

"Hullo, Mum," Sherlock said, bending down to let her press a kiss against his forehead. "I'd like you to meet John Watson. John, this is my mother, Sibyl Holmes."


	99. Chapter 99

"You were expecting separate bedrooms?" Sherlock asked when John stopped in the doorway and stared.

"I was expecting _a_ bedroom," John said. "Not a whole suite." His reply was an eyebrow arched over glimmering grey eyes.

The suite was small but still proper a suite, with a sitting room big enough for two chairs, a loveseat around a coffee table and a desk in the corner. There was an ensuite off the bedroom and even a little terrace outside the glass patio doors. John hoped that part of the gardens _wasn't_ open to the public, or else they'd have to keep the heavy curtains drawn.

As if his thoughts had been read, John felt Sherlock behind him suddenly, fingertips drawing goose bumps as they trailed up the back of his neck. He tipped his head back to meet Sherlock in a kiss. The ghosting touch of fingers and lips made a shudder pass down his spine, followed by another, stronger one when Sherlock undid his belt and his fly.

"Tell me you have lube," John managed.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, voice already thick.

"Good."

His trousers puddled around his ankles, John spread his legs as far as he could, bracing his forearms against the wall. A low moan slipped from his lips as Sherlock began to work him through his pants, soft cotton heightening the sensations. His head dropped against his arms when Sherlock pressed into his back, rubbing slowly to make himself hard.

John whimpered, one fist opening to splay flat against the wall, when Sherlock slipped a hand into his pants.

"Come on," John said, half surprised by the low growl in his voice. Long fingers snagged the elastic and his pants joined his trousers; John spread his legs a fraction more, breath coming on hot gasps against his arms.

There was a moment of cold behind him and the rustle of fabric before one of his hands was peeled away from the wall, fingers interlaced with Sherlock's to stroke his cock. John moaned, his erection twitching.

"Hurry," he managed. "Just– hurry."

He felt the nod behind him as a faint exhalation against the back of his neck, sucking in a sharp breath when Sherlock slid one cold, slick finger into him, then a second. They scissored and stretched until John shook his head.

"Good. Now."

The burn was enough to make him gasp and drop his head back. Sherlock met his mouth in a messy kiss as he pressed in, John pushing back, trying to relax. Sherlock didn't wait for John to adjust, thrusting as he closed a fist over John's erection to stroke him.

John broke away for air, pressing his forehead against his arms again, voice broken down to small moans. He wouldn't last long, not with the pace and the friction, and when Sherlock twisted his wrist deftly at the end of a stroke, dragging his thumb across the head, it was enough. John came with a shuddering cry, giving another one when Sherlock thrust hard, shaking as his own orgasm swept over him.

It felt like a long moment before the haze at the edges of his vision faded, and he could see properly again, before his lungs could get enough air. Sherlock was still pressed against him, and John was holding most of their weight against the wall, warm breath ghosting through his short hair. He stifled a hiss when Sherlock withdrew, felt a soft kiss against the back of his ear.

"I'll get a towel," Sherlock murmured. John managed a nod but Sherlock had already drawn away.

He was cleaned and dressed again, then turned to lean his back against the wall, pulling Sherlock into a lazy kiss.

"Pity," John said. "The bed looks so inviting, too."

"We'll try it tonight," his partner promised. "I brought a set of handcuffs. I'd like you to use them on me."

"Jesus," John managed. The mental image of Sherlock cuffed to the headboard and spread out for him threatened to dissolve the satiated haze that had settled into his mind. "How am I supposed to go the rest of the evening knowing _that_?"

"Anticipation," Sherlock said, leaning in to brush his lips over John's, pulling away when John titled his head for more. "Now come on, we really should freshen up before dinner."

* * *

><p>When they'd arrived, the warm reception had surprised John, and it surprised him again when Sibyl greeted them at dinner. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when it came to Sherlock's mother, but knowing Sherlock and having met Mycroft, it certainly wasn't this.<p>

It changed Sherlock too, and that didn't escape John's notice. He'd seen his partner with all of his defences down before, but only when they were alone. Even if it was only with Gabriel and John, there was still a hint of restraint – related to work, John suspected. Sherlock seemed completely disarmed here, trusting implicitly in the safety of his childhood home, chatting happily with his mother as they gained their seats around the small dining room table.

When dinner was served, he felt slightly guilty at the idea that he could get used to having people cook for him. Whoever Sherlock's parents had, they were a far sight better than John. It still seemed luxurious, but they were left to dine in peace. He wondered where Sherlock's father was but didn't ask – both Sibyl and Sherlock seemed undisturbed by the absence, as if it were normal and unremarkable.

Sibyl adjourned them to a small sitting room when the meal was finished and John entertained the idea of cigars and brandy, but was instructed to bring his drink with him. No mention of smoking had been made, not even by Sherlock – John had yet to work out Sherlock's smoking patterns. He'd seen his partner do it only the once, but had smelled or tasted it on him a scant handful of times since.

Sherlock excused himself before he sat down, claiming a phone call, and John watched him leave with a sceptical expression.

"He planned that," he said.

"Undoubtedly," Sibyl agreed. "Although there probably _is_ something he needs to respond to. They work too hard, these boys of mine. You've been good for him, though." She smiled at John's surprise. "He looks more rested."

"He barely sleeps some nights!" John protested. A sudden heat rose in his cheeks when he realized what he'd indirectly implied, but all he got from Sibyl was a small, reassuring smile.

"I know," she replied. "He gets that from me. But he does look more rested nonetheless, John. Relaxing – _really_ relaxing – has never come easy to him, and he certainly doesn't help matters with his work."

He considered asking if she knew what Sherlock did but swallowed the words, some sixth sense telling him they shouldn't ever be given voice.

"He's been good for you too, I think."

"Yes," John answered, surprised. Sibyl nodded, sipping the wine she'd barely touched over dinner.

"I hope your new role as a corporate physician keeps you occupied enough."

"It does," John said quickly.

"It must be easier on your parents to have you back in London," she commented.

"My mother," John said, trying not to feel uncomfortable at the correction. "My dad died when I was twenty-five."

"Oh I'm terribly sorry," Sibyl replied quickly, and John shook his head.

"No, you couldn't know and you're right at any rate – my mum's happier to have me here than overseas."

"One of the many things no one tells you about parenting is that you never do stop worrying. Especially when one has children like mine," she sighed. "Tell me, if you don't mind, how is life with my son?"

"He certainly keeps me on my toes," John replied and saw Sibyl's smile against the rim of her glass.

"He does do that," she agreed. "Do you know, he began walking when he was eight months old? Eight months. Mycroft was over a year before he bothered with it, but Sherlock wasn't about to be held back."

"Sounds about right," John agreed with a chuckle.

"I was sure I had another few months of relative peace before he could get into everything. An eight month old baby with poor motor control and a stubborn streak a mile wide is enough to try anyone's patience. He grew into the balance, but never outgrew the persistence." Sibyl shook her head, putting her wine glass aside. "His first word was 'Mama', of course – it usually is – but his second word was 'mine'."

John laughed, setting his glass on the arm of the chair to keep from spilling.

"I can't think of anything more fitting," he said.

"To this day, I'm convinced that's how he sees the world. But I don't think it ever occurred to him that anyone would look at him and think the same."

* * *

><p>"He never told me much, and he always thought that meant I didn't know. He was so certain he was the intelligent one."<p>

Charles cocked a dark brow, a smile playing on his lips. Dark eyes gleamed back at him, an expression of vicious triumph on the face of the woman who had first looked at him with terrified hope.

"It's all here," Margot continued. "I'm still working on making sense of most of it, but there's one name that came up often I didn't recognize. Richard Ruisseau."

"Richard Ruisseau?" Charles asked sharply. "Not Rousseau?"

"Definitely Ruisseau. Does it mean anything to you?"

"It means something to me in German," he replied.

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke in the middle of the night, unsurprised by the change. With the pips game behind them, he'd returned to his normal sleep patterns. Despite John's accusation in the midst of the madness imposed upon them by Jim, Sherlock had <em>not<em> trained himself to go without sleep – he'd always been that way. Lacking sleep had never really been a problem for him.

Nor had filling the quiet hours. At least, not before John. Even the nights Charles had spent in his bed, Sherlock hadn't been bothered by leaving his lover fast asleep to work. It kept him on top of any new developments, and it kept him occupied. He'd never found the work to be onerous. Without the distractions of daily life, he could be productive – more so than he normally was.

With John, however, the desire to get up and occupy himself receded, leaving a novel sensation in its wake. It took some time to classify it as contentment; it was not something he was used to feeling. Satisfaction, yes. Even happiness. But this was deeper, warmer. It was pleasant to li e here in the darkness, with John's arm curled around his bare waist, his wrists aching tenderly in a way that indicated they were already bruising. In the darkness, without the glow of London creeping in around the edges of the drapes, John was little more than lines and shadows and soft, rhythmic breathing.

Sherlock dropped a hand to interlace their fingers, and lay in the darkness, patterning his breathing to John's, for some time. Sleep remained elusive – he wasn't tired, even as relaxed as he was – but he was beginning to feel the first stirrings of boredom. Unwilling to wake John by tossing and turning, he raised his partner's hand to his lips to kiss John's palm, then slipped from the bed. A mental snapshot of where his clothing had been strewn helped him dress and he made his way from the suite into silence of the common corridors.

He found his mother in the library, reading in a small pool of lamplight. She smiled when she saw him, marking her page and extending her hands.

"You haven't been playing recently," she commented as she released him to settle in the chair opposite her.

"I haven't," Sherlock replied. "Not much time." The calluses on his fingers were growing softer; hers were not.

"I expect not," Sibyl said with a slight smile. "He's a good man."

"Yes, he is."

"You're good for each other." Sherlock smiled, saw the warmth of the expression reflected in his mother's face. "I like seeing you so happy."

"I wasn't unhappy before," he said with some surprise.

"That's how I know I enjoy seeing you this way," she replied. "Tell me how things are with work."

"Improving."

"Good," Sibyl murmured. Sherlock wondered how much she knew of recent events – and knew he could go right on wondering. She would probably have told him had he asked outright, but Jim wasn't welcome in his family life, and Sherlock trusted his mother to take care of herself.

The companionable silence that settled over them was warm and familiar, one of the few things from his childhood that they retained on his visits. As a boy, he'd sought out his mother in the dead of night when sleep had been elusive. She'd never admonished him to go back to bed; instead she'd let him sit with her and read until he'd fallen asleep again. The older he'd become, the less sleep he'd needed, and the nights in the library had become routine. The only thing that had changed was his choice of reading material – Sibyl returned to her book but Sherlock skimmed through his email on his phone.

A message from Gabriel was routine enough; he expected to be kept informed while he was away, and his associate would have called had anything been serious enough to warrant his immediate attention. Still, the news was more than just a routine update.

_Tower 22__nd__ May. Checking into it. So far routine. No state events, no visiting VIPs. Will follow up more closely tomorrow and email with news. _

Sherlock frowned and reread the short missive carefully. He'd only been to the Tower of London once, at the age of fifteen for a school trip, but closing his eyes for a few moments of concentration let him see it precisely as his younger self had, let him walk in those footsteps again, let him peer at information signs and through glasses cases.

His eyes flew open with a swallowed gasp.

"Mum."

Sibyl looked up, slightly puzzled by the tone; Sherlock set his phone aside and leaned forward intently.

"When you first told me what you'd heard about Jim Moriarty, you said something about ice."

"Yes, I remember," she replied.

"Tell me again – your words again exactly."

"It was something I overheard," Sibyl said. "But exactly as I heard it: 'he has a flair for the dramatic, and a penchant for ice'."

Sherlock turned the words over and over his mind, dissecting them until he was certain, then sat back in his chair, a triumphant smile curling on his lips.

"I assumed at the time they meant drugs," Sibyl commented, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, tapping his phone thoughtfully against his lips. "Until now, so did I."


	100. Chapter 100

For three weeks they'd had a name, but in a city the size of London, and with such a common name, it was too hard to narrow down. Suspects and witnesses could put him on the street – even put the goods in his hands – but they were always one step behind. Never knowing where he was going to be.

Police officers gossiped like school girls – oh, they weren't supposed to, but they did, and it paid off on occasion.

Now the name had an address.

And a warrant.

"Let's go get him, shall we?"

* * *

><p>"What do you mean 'gone'?"<p>

Nervous twist of hands, flutter of eyelashes, dart of the tongue across lips dry with anxiety. Adam's apple bobbing, words forming.

"_I didn't say you could speak!_ _How_ is the money gone? Where did it go? It _was_ transferred before the bloody FBI could get hold of it!"

Inhale deeply, hold, exhale. The eye of the storm and he was – contained, controlled, the source of the fury that swept the room, driving into the trembling peon opposite him, washing unnoticed over Sebastian with his back to the bookcases, calm expression on his face, dark focus in his eyes.

"Don't make me wait." Spoken with a slow drawl, feigned calmness, a dire warning beneath the tones if one knew how to listen to it – _he_ did. Terrified eyes darting to Sebastian, search for reassurance where there was never any, trying to avoid the gaze that held his, being pulled back like a line, like magnetism.

"It was transferred, yes." Confirmation of what he already knew – useless information, wasted oxygen, impatient drum of perfectly manicured fingers on fine leather. Eyes flickering again to follow the movement, like a frightened animal flitting every which way looking for safety that didn't exist.

"The FBI found it all the same. They seized the money and froze the accounts."

"_HOW?_" Jim screamed. "How did they find it?" Cringing – disgusting. No pride, no responsibility. The sound of nothingness in his mind, of a vacuum leaving behind only a void – _but it's not so bad_ Jim told himself, it was only a portion – a portion he relied on and the bust had been damage enough, nothing he couldn't recover from because he was prepared, but the sands had shifted, revealing nothing beneath them, nothing to stand on, a gaping hole in his accounts that could not be accounted for.

"Sebastian. Kill him." Two movements: one smooth, assured, reaching for the ever present weapon, the one that slept beneath his pillow at nights, whose grip smoothed itself into a familiar palm and fingers. The other terrified, drawing back even further – cornered now, nowhere to run.

But the money had run – oh it had run, and the FBI had run with it, taking what wasn't _theirs_, presuming to claim what was _his._

"No, don't. Get the money back. Sebastian, take his wife. Each day he doesn't, cut off one of her fingers."

"And when she hasn't got any left?"

"Surprise me."

* * *

><p>The house had the peculiar silence that came with the other inhabitants being gone – Jamie was still in Edinburgh, and Mrs. Hudson was out at the theatre with Mrs. Turner from next door. John had passed her going out, and she'd fussed over the details of his weekend in the country, making him blush.<p>

He took advantage of the quiet to putter around, crossing small things off the repairs list Mrs. Hudson have given him. It wasn't surgery, but it was nice to be able to work with his hands, and gave him something to do while waiting for his takeaway to arrive. After a weekend at Sherlock's parents, John didn't think his own cooking skills could compare, and he enjoyed not to have to do anything but dish himself a plate and turn on the telly.

The sound of the buzzer distracted him and John clattered down the steps to the front door. In the deepening blue-black of dusk, the yellow light of the front porch lamp made the strangers on his step seem stark, almost too real. Their identities were put into context for him by the familiar yellow-and-black uniforms and the serious, almost unyielding expressions. John felt a pang of unexpected fear in his stomach, mind kicking into high gear – something had happened to his mother or Harry. Fingers curled around the doorframe as one of the officers asked:

"John Watson?"

"Yes," he managed, still holding onto a tenuous, terrible hope.

"John H. Watson?"

"That's me." _Get to the point, get to the point._

"Sir, we have a warrant to search your flat."

* * *

><p>"I'm a doctor! Of <em>course<em> I have controlled substances – I also have all the permits! This is ridiculous!"

"Stand back please, sir," the sergeant said, tone harshly indifferent, her dispassionate gaze watching the officers tearing his flat apart, never bothering to look his way.

"This is bloody bollocks!" John snapped. "I'm a private doctor – this is where I work from! It's all documented! I haven't got anything here that I'm not supposed to have!"

"Ma'am? We've found something."

"What?" John demanded, following the sergeant as she strode toward his bedroom, his mind racing, absurdly reminding him that he had lube stored in the bedside table now – and in the bathroom cabinet, as well as between the cushions on the sofa. He suppressed a groan, arguing with himself that whatever they'd found couldn't be incriminating.

"Tell me, Doctor Watson, were you in the army?" the sergeant asked, barely bothering to glance over her shoulder.

"What?" he repeated. "Yeah, I was, but–"

His stomach sank the moment before she turned back to him, his service revolver held carefully in one latex-gloved hand.

"This looks suspiciously like a military issue Browning. Do you have the permits for this?"

The cold realization hit the burning flare of panic, leaving him without words. The sergeant cocked an eyebrow at him, then nodded at a constable.

"A stolen military weapon, Doctor? That's enough for me. You'll be coming with us."

* * *

><p>Rain had slunk in by the time they reached the Marylebone station, the steady clattering against the glass the only response to John's questions. The situation seemed like a nightmare whose unreality he understood as a dream but couldn't escape. The panic mixed with a flurry of incomprehension and stark realizations: his phone had been left behind and no one else had been at home. A fervent hope that Sherlock had someone watching the house made it difficult to breathe for a moment; John swallowed against it, closing his eyes as he drew a deep breath.<p>

Name, rank, and serial number. The three things he'd been trained to give should he be captured. Rank and serial number no longer mattered but he clung to the principle – he wasn't required to answer any questions.

The station was busy with officers coming and going, suspects being taken in, flashing lights catching the rain, sirens being abruptly silenced. John felt conspicuous, exposed, but no one gave them more than casual, indifferent glances in which he could read nothing.

* * *

><p>Photographed, printed, processed – all in silence except for brief instructions on how to stand, where to look. John forced himself not to be numb, to pay attention to the details: names of officers, expressions on faces, snatches of overheard conversation. He had dreamt once of stumbling into a play in which all of the other actors knew their lines but he did not – the same sensation settled over him now. He did what he was told from practiced military habit and gave away precisely what was given to him: nothing.<p>

He was relieved of his watch – the only thing they could take. The image of his mobile on the table next to the sofa hung at the front of his mind, a regret that his one possible link to the sanity of the world he knew was gone. Such a small thing, and he'd never felt as isolated without it as he did now.

_They_ will_ talk to you_, he told himself. They would have to interview him and that this would be cleared up, but there was a rattle of metallic bars and the suspicious or impassive glances of the three other men sharing the holding cell.

"You'll see a judge in the morning," was the promise as John turned, trying to gauge the width and strength of the bars, knowing it was pointless.

"I want to see my solicitor," he said.

"Who is your solicitor, sir?"

The question drew him up short, giving him pause.

"He works for my firm; I've never met him. You need to contact my boss, Sherlock Holmes. I can give you his number."

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

><p>Two steps forward, turn, two steps back. The length of the tiny cell was meant to hold him but not his agitation. The low growl from the man in the cell next to him made him stop. Sitting on the narrow cot didn't help. John jiggled one leg. Interlaced his fingers. Pressed them against his mouth. Let them drop between his knees. Tapped his heel. Rubbed his eyes. Heard the silent sound of seconds stretching out, blurring with each other.<p>

There was no privacy here, only metal bars that delineated him from everyone else. _You_ are wrong. _We _are right.

It had been stupid keeping the gun. Had made him feel safe. If only he hadn't. If only he'd hidden it better. If only he'd tried to get the paperwork. If only Sherlock would come.

If only…

Questions about his solicitor went unanswered, ignored. The bars were a barrier to sound as much as to freedom – glances might be directed his way but conversations were withheld. Brief comments of "we're working on it" were the only thin assurances he received. John wanted to call their bluff but bit his tongue. If they'd rung Sherlock, he'd have been here by now – or _someone_ would have.

_No,_ John told himself, heels of his hands digging into his eyes again, _he'd come himself._

Name graffiti tagged across the front of Scotland Yard be damned – this wasn't the Yard and Sherlock wouldn't send anyone else to deal with this, not when John was involved.

He wasn't here because they hadn't called him.

_Unless he's been arrested, too_.The thought was unbidden and unwelcome and pushed him back to his feet to pace the short cell again, ignoring the man adjacent to him. The bars that were thick enough to hold him were also thick enough to protect him.

* * *

><p>Sleep was impossible and lying on the cot made John feel exposed. Sitting back to the wall seemed somehow vulnerable, like admitting defeat. The edge of the cot was uncomfortable, made his shoulders slump.<p>

He was without a watch and there was no clock he could see; it could have been hours or a mere fifteen minutes. Without a reference, he was adrift, helplessness breeding desperation and anger. It helped keep the chill at bay but aggravated his shoulder, making him tense, building on the impatience and anxiety.

The rattle of the cell door had John on his feet again, legs pressed against the cot when another man was ushered in unceremoniously. He glowered at John from behind a deepening bruise on one eye contoured by parallel scratches. In the background, a woman's voice was shouting obscenities; the newcomer turned and hollered them back.

"That's enough!" the officer snapped.

The clang of metal had John moving again, catching the constable before he was out of reach.

"I'm still waiting for my solicitor. Someone was meant to call." Voice reasonable and calm – as much as he could keep it in these circumstances. He could feel the tension ready to snap when the constable gave him a disinterested look.

"I'll see what I can find out."

* * *

><p>It must have been a shift change. The station was buzzing with conversations and bodies, laughter ringing out, stirring the anger that was simmering in John's stomach. It was out of place – <em>he<em> was out of place. A familiar tightness in his lungs when he thought about the gun they'd discovered. Balanced over his head like a guillotine blade – not the only decision they could question since he'd left the army, but the one that had landed him here.

The man with the bruises and scratches was watching him, gaze like a weight. John couldn't shake it; staring back was pointless. The man next to them with the tattoos and the shaved head was snoring, but the sound didn't shake the silent malice from his cellmate.

New officers meant new hope. He wished he knew who in the Met was on Sherlock's payroll. Where they were stationed. What they looked like. Would his name raise a flag somewhere, catch some tired officer's attention?

John watched them all as they drifted passed, willing someone to recognize him, to call Sherlock and get him out of this bloody place.

* * *

><p>The sound of his phone elicited a soft groan from beside him and Gabriel sighed, blinking himself reluctantly awake, fingers curling instinctively around his mobile. In the darkness, the blue-white light was half-blinding, making him squint and swallow a curse.<p>

The name on the screen burned off any remaining haze from sleep in an instant and he sat up, reaching for one crutch to get himself out of the bedroom as quickly as he could.

He made it to the kitchen before he let himself call Sherlock, using the distance to ensure Sandra wouldn't overhear what she didn't want to know.

"I've just spoken with Dimmock's handler," he said before Sherlock could draw a breath to speak. "They've got John at Marylebone Station."


	101. Chapter 101

His cellmate with the black eye and the fingernail scratches had been taken for questioning. John had fought conflicting relief and despair – he was glad to see the other man gone, but no one had given any indications of talking to him. Whatever stories he thought he could come up with to smooth over the truth drained away as the seconds slipped past, and he went without sleep.

Here, in this place, he didn't trust himself to lie down and close his eyes. Being an army surgeon had taught him to go without sleep for long periods of time; being injured had shredded all the habits he'd had before. It was less difficult to stay up now, but the ache in his shoulder had spread from the front of the back, creeping up his neck.

Sherlock wasn't coming.

This had been set up.

Jim had him. The police had him. The thought had made John cold with terror at first, but the fear had become too familiar a sensation quickly. The night would vanish, he'd be hauled up in front of a judge in the morning on drugs charges that meant nothing – but with an illegal weapon that would seal the deal.

What would he say? He had no solicitor. They might let him call Harry. She could call Clara – Clara would know someone who might help.

The world blurred and darkened behind dropping eyelids and John blinked hard trying to shake wakefulness back into a reluctant mind. The tattooed man beside him had mercifully stopped snoring, but the relative silence gave him nothing to focus on. The chatter and bustle of the station had faded into the background, stifled by the chill born of exhaustion.

Shifting on the cot helped, but only briefly. Pain lanced briefly through his shoulder, making him wince. Sleep crept back around the edges of his mind and he set his teeth against it. He was so intent on not succumbing that it took a moment for the familiar voice and the demanding words to register.

"You _will_ take me to John Watson. Immediately."

* * *

><p>John was up in a shot, relief so strong his legs felt weak, but the rest of him felt light, hands closing around the bars, incredulous gaze fixed on the tall figure striding his way, dark coat billowing out as if to encompass the two smartly dressed people behind him.<p>

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, exhaling a night's worth of tension. "Sherlock."

"John. Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine, just get me out of this bloody cell."

* * *

><p>"Melissa Kim and Michael Durrett for the defendant. And this is Mister Sherlock Holmes, whose name I'm sure you're familiar with."<p>

Sherlock's solicitor had turned out to be two, both of whom appeared untroubled by – or perhaps unaware of – the fact that it was the middle of the night. Crisp suits, no signs of fatigue around the edges of their features, sharp gazes. John sank gratefully into a chair on one side of the table, flanked by the solicitors and Sherlock, leaving the sergeant who had arrested him and a lone detective to face them.

"On what basis was my client's home searched?"

"Information from a suspect currently in custody that Mister Watson has been selling illegal narcotics."

"And the name of this suspect?"

"Ms. Kim, you know very well we can't discuss specifics of ongoing investigations with outside parties present." The detective gave Sherlock a heated glare; Sherlock's expression remained dispassionate, but John had caught the flicker of banked fire the moment he'd seen his partner, and it hadn't disappeared.

"When precisely does this suspect of yours claim Mister Watson sold him these drugs?"

"The ninth of April, at approximately nine-thirty PM."

"That was Thursday," Sherlock said. Two sets of eyes flickered toward him from across the table, and the detective gave a curt nod. "Had you bothered to ask _Doctor_ Watson about this, you'd have spared yourself quite a lot of time and paperwork."

"And why is that, Mister Holmes?" the detective asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Because he was with me."

"That's convenient," the sergeant commented. "What were you doing?"

John felt himself colouring even as Sherlock replied:

"We were having sex."

Neither solicitor reacted but both officers glanced at John, flickers of surprise crossing their expressions. He put on his best impassive military expression, aware that the redness in his cheeks didn't help the attempt at neutrality.

"We were at my flat – I'd be happy to give you the address so that you can confirm – and we were on my sofa. I believe we were both entirely naked by that time, but you'll understand that my recollections are somewhat hazy."

John doubted that, and his own memories of the night were clear enough that he felt he was broadcasting them to the entire room. He'd been especially enthusiastic in his thank you to Sherlock for arranging Tricia's early return home.

"I see," the sergeant said, only a touch of discomfort in her voice as she jotted something on the notepad in front of her.

"Did you find any illegal drugs in my client's home?" Kim asked, and the displeased look on the detective's face was enough of an answer for John.

"We found an illegal weapon."

"It's not illegal if he has the paperwork," Sherlock said.

John hoped like hell that his own shock had been missed by the same reaction in both officers. Sherlock nodded at Kim, who slipped a file smoothly across the table.

"All of the proper permits from the military and the government, all in order, as you can see," Sherlock said coolly. "Kept in a safe deposit box at my request – these things should never be just left lying around, don't you think?"

"Why didn't you tell us this?" the sergeant demanded.

"Did you give him an opportunity to do so, Sergeant Rish? By your own admission, you had yet to interview him."

"The exclusion of the gun from the search warrant also renders this arrest invalid," Kim said before the sergeant could answer. "You should investigate the tip from your suspect more closely; I imagine there are a number of John H. Watsons living in London – but this is the wrong one. I expect the release paperwork to be completed within the hour so that my client can return home – you appreciate, of course, the inconvenience you've caused him. There will be no discussion of returning him to the holding cell. He will remain here with us. Feel free to station a guard outside the door if you feel it necessary."

* * *

><p><em>Someone<em> _must have lit a fire under them,_ John thought when Rish returned less than half an hour later with the completed discharge paperwork, a dark expression, and a stiff apology. John nodded, aware that Sherlock was displeased by the treatment, but he didn't care.

He wanted to go home.

There was some necessary discussion with the solicitors that John barely listened to as he waited for his watch to be returned; Sherlock's voice was low enough that it evidently wasn't for his ears anyway. They hadn't left him and Sherlock alone while awaiting his processing, and John felt their presence like a weight, like insects crawling on his skin.

He wanted to be _alone_ – alone with Sherlock and completely alone, warring desires that were draining the precious little that remained of his reserves. He felt disgusting, covered in a layer of grime that he couldn't see but could feel, like oil clamming up his skin. Without a coat or keys or phone he felt lost, but Sherlock was guiding him through the station, the solicitors mercifully gone now, until they were free in the cold night air. John followed dutifully through the parking lot to the car waiting on a side street, shocked when he was suddenly stopped by the obstacle of Sherlock's body, leather gloves pressing against his cheeks to tilt his face up.

"John. Are you all right?"

He managed a nod.

"Yes, fine. I need to go home."

"Of course."

He was ushered into the car, collapsing against the leather seats, breathing in a familiar warmth, some of the tension evaporating as the engine hummed to life. The movement helped – he wasn't _stuck_ anymore. He was heading home – somewhere comfortable, somewhere safe.

It was taking too long.

Eyes flew open, not registering the familiar neighbourhoods he expected to see.

"Sherlock, I said _home._"

"We're going to my flat," Sherlock said, almost dismissively, and John felt a flare of returning anger. "I have someone tidying up after the police and it will be distressing–"

"I want to go _home_," John snapped. "I don't want anyone bloody cleaning up – after the police invaded, do you _really_ think I want more strangers there? And I don't want to go to yours! I want _my_ shower and _my _bed. Your flat isn't my home!"

"But it should be," Sherlock said. "We can discuss the specifics in the morning, but it will be simple enough to hire a lorry and a crew to pack your things and move them into my flat. You won't have to worry about this sort of nonsense happening again–"

"This is how you ask me?" John demanded. "This is how you think I'm going to move in, without any say, without any discussion, without even being properly _asked_ if it's what I want?"

"It only makes sense–"

"It doesn't make _any_ bloody sense, Sherlock! We've been together for what– a month now? You want me to move in with you? No, you've just _decided_ I'm going to move in with you– and you think this is good timing? After I was arrested and forced to spend half the night in a bloody cell? You think I want to be told where to go right now? _You_ made the flat part of the bloody deal, Sherlock! It's _my home_! You can't just– I don't know, unceremoniously decide that it's not anymore. _If_ I move in with you, _we_ will decide that together. Do you understand?"

Pale eyes widened slightly and Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed once, almost uncertainly, but he gave a curt nod.

"Of course. I was merely trying–"

"You were trying to be efficient," John sighed, tilting his head back before rousing himself enough to lean forward and slide the glass open to give Gerald new instructions. "I get it, Sherlock. It would be easier if I were there– you could keep an eye on me, you wouldn't have to worry about anything happening. But that's not how it works. I'm not just one of your employees. I'm your partner. It has to be my choice, too."

* * *

><p>Sherlock would have come with him, but John had put his foot down. Blessed silence descended on the flat after he'd dismissed Sherlock's cleaning people, but he still felt jumpy, jarred by the mess that hadn't yet been tidied – constant evidence that the police had been here, that they'd torn apart his life looking for something that didn't exist.<p>

Another flare of anger hit him when he stepped into the kitchen to make a cuppa – a photograph of him and Tricia usually pinned to the fridge had fallen to the floor. The thump of his fist on the counter reverberated up his arm; John clenched his jaw and sucked in a deep breath, letting it go slowly. Cursing or breaking something wouldn't help, and would probably drag Mrs. Hudson up to see what was wrong. If he were really lucky, he could have the flat cleaned up before she saw him or before Jamie returned the next day.

He didn't want any questions about it.

A wry chuckle escaped John's lips – he understood now Jamie's decision not to tell Tricia about the abduction. He didn't want to dwell on it. He wanted it done.

With a sigh, he replaced the photograph on the fridge. One less reminder of the night that had just passed. John abandoned the idea of tea in favour of a shower, standing under a hot stream of water until his skin was red and the bathroom was choked with steam.

* * *

><p>It was early enough in the morning that Lestrade would still like to consider it the middle of the night, if only so he could get a few more hours' sleep. He padded through the dark and silent flat, past the open door to the kids' bedroom – they were with their mother this week – and into the kitchen where the smell of coffee wafted to meet him. The pre-programmed coffee maker was his one luxury and his saving grace on mornings like these.<p>

"It would have been polite to make enough for two."

He swore, the sound mingling with the shattering porcelain on the hard countertop, instinct kicking in as he located the source of the voice in the darkened living room behind him, a figure all in shadow seated calmly in one chair. His mind kicked into high gear, all the effects of sleep burning off in that instant as he tried to work out what he could use as a weapon.

"No need to worry, Inspector. That's not why I'm here. But I assure you, I am capable of defending myself if need be."

There was something about the harmonic that he recognized, a smooth veneer over a depth of danger. There was movement and the light next to the chair flickered on – Lestrade barely contained another curse.

Sherlock Holmes, composed and polished in an immaculately pressed suit, not a hair or a thread out of place, sat watching Lestrade calmly over steepled fingertips.

The DI was suddenly aware that he was in no more than a t-shirt and a pair of old boxers, with a broken cup of coffee dripping from the counter.

And he was a police officer whose home had been invaded.

"Oh you could call the police, I agree," Holmes said, tone almost disinterested as he raised an eyebrow in challenge – or doubt. "Of course then you'd be left with one of two problems."

"Which are?" Lestrade snapped, berating himself instantly for taking the bait.

"No one saw me enter, and no one will see me leave. You will note, Inspector, that your children are _not_ here – I needn't have timed it this way. If I chose to stay, you would find yourself in the particularly uncomfortable position of having to explain to your superiors why you provided false evidence that Doctor John Hamish Watson was the same John H. Watson Detective Ferren was seeking. I'm no expert in police procedure" – _that's a bloody lie if I ever heard one_, Lestrade thought – "but I expect that setting up the arrest of a man you knew to be uninvolved with this crime is somewhat frowned upon.

"Particularly since you still have so many unresolved cases of your own."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lestrade snapped. Holmes sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling as if appealing for some divine intervention.

"_Please_ don't be tedious, Inspector. It would do you credit to try and imagine how often I hear that same tired line and how often it is nothing more than a lie." A brief pause, not enough for Lestrade to formulate a reply. "If you ever come after any of my people again, Inspector, believe me, I will ensure that you live a very long life _filled_ with regrets."

"You break into _my_ home and have the gall to threaten me? Who the bloody hell do you think you are?" Lestrade demanded, enraged by the way he'd been pinned, the knowledge Holmes was holding over his head.

"The voice in a darkened alley that makes you wish you had a weapon. The memory of madness not quite hidden in a pair of eyes that wakes you up in the small hours of the morning. The depths of depravity to which someone can sink when a moment of insanity strikes.

"I am not these things, Inspector. I am worse. Yet someone scrawled my name on your building. Someone orchestrated that, in this city, on one of the most recognizable symbols of authority. Would you rather be dealing with him, or with me?"

Holmes held his gaze longer than was comfortable, until the flicker of defiance turned to doubt, the words that formed in response dying on Lestrade's lips.

"Knowledge is power, Inspector. I invite you to consider how much power you've gained by what you now know."

"You don't frighten me, Mister Holmes."

"It's not me of whom you should be frightened. Do you think the city is a battlefield? This is nothing compared to what could happen. Stay away from Doctor Watson. Stay away from Mister Mitchell – unless you happen to do your job and locate his brother. Stay away from my people, and from me. You don't want to face what will happen if you don't. You may think me the devil, Inspector, but I am the devil you know."


	102. Chapter 102

Breath hung on the crisp morning air, mingled with steam from coffee that helped keep the worst of the pre-dawn chill at bay. "Any ID?"

"He's got a wallet," one of the forensic techs replied. "No cash, no cards, but a licence… Christopher Malley."

"Looks like someone had a bone to pick with him."

It was just light enough to see the wan looks he got in reply – and to make out the frozen, blue-black bruises on the dead man's face.

* * *

><p>The blissful moment between sleep and full awareness lasted barely the space of a breath before the ache in John's shoulder demanded his attention. It took another moment to remember precisely <em>why<em> it was hurting, and the remnants of the rested feeling drained away, leaving him weighted and reluctant.

With a sigh he got out of bed, downed some painkillers with a hot cup of coffee, and stood in the midst of the mess the police had left. Sherlock's cleaning people had managed to get most of the living room done before John had ousted them, but there were little things that weren't right – the angle of a picture frame, the careless pile of books that had been moved.

His lungs felt tight again, muscles tensing with the sudden urge to leave. He could get out, go to Sherlock's flat, ignore this mess. Ask for the cleaners to come back and finish the job.

Have his privacy invaded all over again.

The memory of the photograph on the floor strengthened his resolve. This was _his_ home. He'd gone long enough without a real one that no one was going to take the sensation of security and familiarity from him again.

It took more time than he'd have liked. The telly on in the background for company helped, but it couldn't quell the indignation that flared up as anger. When he was finished, John felt covered in grime again, an invisible layer that was hugging his skin.

Satisfied that everything had been put to rights, John scrubbed himself in the shower, turning the water up as hot as he could handle for the second time in less than a day. It felt better, but there was still something off. He could feel it at the back of his mind, eluding him. He washed again, certain it was only in his head, running the soapy flannel over reddened skin until he reached the scar.

Unbidden, the memory of Sherlock hovering over him, asking his permission to touch the damaged skin came back to him. Nostrils flared at the remembered scent of his partner, the memory of the careful, studious expression on Sherlock's face, his pale grey eyes half-consumed by black pupils.

He was lonely.

The need for privacy vanished and the strength of the sudden desire to have Sherlock _there_ made him catch his balance carefully against the steam-slicked wall. Knowing it was the middle of the day didn't help – Sherlock was probably in meetings and wouldn't even be able to see him.

_Wouldn't hurt to try_, he told himself. It was likely that Sherlock would make some exceptions for him today – at the very least they could make plans for this evening. John wanted to spend the night at Baker Street again, but this time, he didn't want to spend it alone.

* * *

><p>There was no sound other than the call to come in. John eased the door to Sherlock's office open, meeting a gaze that was in equal parts cautious and relieved. He smiled hesitantly, apologetic.<p>

"Tina's not here. I wasn't sure if you were busy."

"I have her taking care of a few matters," Sherlock replied obliquely, and John wondered if it had anything do with the solicitors and the police – and found he didn't really want to know. Sherlock would sort it out because that was what Sherlock did. John had admitted to trusting him with finding Jamie. He trusted him to take care of this, too.

"Come in, please." The invitation was oddly formal. Sherlock was fiddling with a pen, still seated behind his desk, outlined against the long windows that overlooked the city. _Hesitant_ was the best word John could come up with as he settled into a chair opposite his partner, eyes darting to the flickering pen. Sherlock followed his gaze and dropped it abruptly on the desk, pressing long fingers over it as if that were the only way to keep himself still.

"I wanted to, um – say thanks," John began. "For yesterday. This morning, really."

"You don't have to keep thanking me," Sherlock replied. "We're partners. Isn't this what partners do for one another? Be supportive?"

"Yeah," John chuckled. "But your brand of support's a little different than most. I wanted to apologize, too." An eyebrow was cocked at him. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

"You were understandably upset," Sherlock countered.

"I know. I'm still sorry about it."

"Apology accepted then," Sherlock replied. There was something odd to his tone, almost restrained.

"You all right?" John asked.

"Of course. Are you?"

"Yeah, fine now, thanks. Although I feel a bit like I'm here for a job interview."

Fingers tightened on the pen again, released. Realization dawned and John leaned forward, covering Sherlock's hand with his own. Almost before he could register the movement, Sherlock was crouching in front of him, both hands cupping John's face, pulling him into a kiss. The feeling that had driven him here snapped; John kissed back, growling as Sherlock drew away. The hands holding him tugged insistently and he was on his feet, head tilted back as far as it would go, fisted fingers tightening in his hair.

He was half dragged to the couch, clothing coming off hurriedly, haphazardly. Hunching his shoulders, ignoring the ache, to let his jumper and t-shirt be pulled off. Fingers fumbling with Sherlock's on his partner's belt and trousers. John wasn't surprised that Sherlock had lube stashed in his office, didn't care that the office door was unlocked. The relief was too strong, and he wanted to bury his face in Sherlock's neck, dig his fingers into long muscles on Sherlock's back, wrap his legs around Sherlock's waist. There was no attempt to muffle noises; Sherlock caught his shout with a hard kiss that ended in a moan before the shared sound of harsh breathing began to slow and soften.

With a chuckle, John let his fingers relax against warm skin, head tilting slightly as Sherlock nuzzled his nose. Lips met again, unhurriedly this time, sliding slowly against each other, breaking apart.

"Lucky you haven't got any clients," John murmured.

"I will," Sherlock assured him. "As a rule, I don't see anyone when Tina's not here."

"Mm," John sighed, brushing their lips together. "Good thing I don't know about that rule."

"Feel free to break it anytime you'd like."

His smile was traced by the pad of a thumb; John pressed his lips against it, relaxing when Sherlock smoothed it along his cheekbone, his jaw.

"Would you?" Sherlock asked.

"Would I what?"

"Move in."

"Would you move in with me?" John replied. The shift in Sherlock's muscles tensed, preparing to pull away, but John kept him where he was, kept him close.

"It's a serious question," John said.

"So was mine," Sherlock huffed. John waited; a flicker of displeasure crossed Sherlock's features as he gave a minute shake. John kissed him again, letting Sherlock feel that there was no anger or disappointment in the gesture. He'd known the answer even before he'd asked the question, and for all his small fantasies, there'd never been any real consideration of Sherlock moving into his flat.

"There's an order to these things, you know," John said. "Neither of us has even said 'I love you'. It's a bit soon to be talking about moving in." He covered Sherlock's lips with one finger. "And you don't say it because it's expected. You say it because you mean it."

"I wasn't going to," Sherlock said. "I was saying 'all right'."

John smiled, replacing his finger with his lips again.

"I will, you know. Just not yet."

"I know," Sherlock murmured, giving a quiet yelp when John dropped a hand to pinch an ass cheek.

"I'd like you to come over tonight," John said. He expected some protest – Sherlock's was bigger, more comfortable, had better linens, had all of Sherlock's things – and he saw the refusal hovering on Sherlock's lips, but what he got was a brief nod.

"Of course. I won't be done until around nine, however."

"That's fine," John replied. "It will give me time to cook something. If I remember right, I owe you a dinner."

* * *

><p>Such colour under low grey skies, against the frosted tinge of frozen dirt. Red, blue, black, purple – colours of the human body where blood met the surface of skin as gashes or blooming bruises. Such stark vividity, as if there might still be a spark behind sightless, lifeless eyes.<p>

A mosaic of colour spread out as a mural on his desk, all photographs that stole snippets of life from a life that was already gone.

"How." A word, just a single word, not even a question. A demand. No, too strong. A request? No – never that, it implied the possibility of denial and _oh how he would not be denied_. Not now. Not ever.

Not with this.

Hesitation, the sound of a throat being cleared without the actual sound, bobbing Adam's apple so clear in his mind he did not have to look up because even Sebastian – _Sebastian!_ – hated to be the bearer of bad news and this wasn't _bad_, it was _complicating_, which was far worse. _Bad_ – he understood _bad_. He made things _bad_ on a daily basis for people, it was his work, his life, his oxygen replacing carbon dioxide in lungs that felt unaccountably frail as he stared at – _studied_ – the photographs in front of him.

How many breaths between the first lash and the last gasp? How long had he held out?

What had he said?

_Where was the money?_

"We'll find it," Sebastian answered when asked and there was hollow laughter and a sudden swipe of colour and clatter and the photographs were on the floor and Jim was on his feet, the press of wood against his knuckles, the faint stretch of fine wool across his shoulders.

"Not. Good. Enough."

A nod, an acquiescence. Sebastian knew and they were all so _fallible_ these people – _idiots!_ – who worked for him. It was a game – a game they didn't understand, and they thought their rules were enough, that their comprehension was enough and it never was, which was why _he_ was in charge, but not when they didn't _listen,_ and someone – someone would pay.

Pay him back the money.

And whatever else he deemed was owed.

"The woman." Half a question this time, disappointment like a tiny spear in his heart when Sebastian's head gave a faint shake.

"He frequented her."

"Yes." The word drawn out slowly, carefully.

"Her handiwork."

"No." Denial thrown in his face where he wanted – _oh he wanted _– confirmation so he could refute what he'd seen in the photographs. Bruises in the shape of fingerprints too large, to indelicate, to be hers. The blows too clumsy, too backed by passion instead of cold calculation.

"Not unless she can be in two places at once. O'Donnell, most likely."

A quick check of the memory and the wood dug further into his skin. Complications that should have been resolved years ago, left to amateurs to sort out when it should have been Sebastian with a bullet. Nice. Clean.

Simple.

Not like this, the photographs of the dead man dumped on his floor the way the body had been dumped, abandoned, disregarded. Left in plain sight for the police to find, the early morning bane of a detective's life. A rivalry that had been supposedly severed when the cleverer man – not so clever, in the end – had supplanted the other. Should have been done away with altogether but they all had their uses until their desires and greed and _ignorance_ got in the way, took over, and one of them ended like _this_ with his secrets silenced and the money gone.

"Find him."


	103. Chapter 103

"I sent Cheryl and Simone," Gabriel said. "I'm still a bit conspicuous."

"And taking pictures with crutches would be difficult," Sherlock murmured without raising his gaze from the photographs spread out on his desk. Gabriel needn't have named the photographers – their identities were obvious. A killer and a thief. Each woman had chosen different subjects and often different angles, giving him a perspective of the Tower that was close to how Jim would see it – but much more lucid.

The blueprints Gabriel had acquired were better than the tourist map Cheryl had thought to include. A quick glance at his computer monitor and the rearrangement of some photographs gave Sherlock a sense of scale with added details, and he was pleased to see that his adolescent recollections were complete and fairly accurate. Small mental adjustments were necessary to update the intervening seventeen years, but the principal target remained the same.

Both women had photographed that as well, the view hampered by the regulations in that room and the need to hide their work from the security cameras.

_The most valuable thing behind those walls_, Sherlock mused privately. He had personally never seen the appeal – it was all far too ostentatious, even for him – but he understood why it drew Jim's interest. Arguably the most potent symbols of the United Kingdom, made so visible but still so untouchable.

"If you were going to steal something from the Tower, how would you do it?"

Gabriel's expression was nearly blank, but his eyes were focused, the mind that Sherlock had trained to think in precisely this way working through all the possible scenarios.

"No," Sherlock clarified. "If you were going to steal something from the Tower and intended to get caught, how would you do it?"

* * *

><p>Too much attention focused on him of late – no, not on <em>him<em>, the attention was never on him. He was always several moves ahead, a fading set of footsteps, a shadow that was gone when you looked twice, the whisper of a name on the breeze. The focus was on the people on the edges, the peripherals. Small, unimportant bricks knocked from the mortar to turn to dust when they hit the ground. Broken links in a chain that could be re-forged tighter and stronger without them.

Unimportant.

Sherlock, though. _Sherlock._

Oh the police had his scent now, didn't they? A wounded lieutenant. A missing brother. A message scrawled on Scotland Yard. And now… A voided arrest warrant for one Doctor John Watson. Six hours in holding. Security footage of Sherlock himself at Marylebone Police Station.

It was _delicious_. Jim could taste it, such a sweet victory, not even tainted by the fact that it wasn't his. Someone had paid _attention_ to the name on the windows of the Yard, had made connections that weren't there – although it would be worth checking more closely into the little doctor's activities, one never knew – and had ruffled some very important feathers.

And hadn't Sherlock seemed ruffled in the stilled video images? Banked fire behind pale eyes. Lines of anger flowing down lean muscle.

Alone in his office, Jim smiled.

Someone had been busy. Lucky. Here and in France. A captured doctor. A recovered piece of art. Oh the little doctor had slipped free of the net – wasn't the right person in any case – but the art wouldn't be lost so easily. That was money draining away and Jim _would_ get his back. Bumps in the road, not blocks. He hadn't been seeing straight. But now he understood, oh yes. Dawn always brought such clarity of thought, such a brief, fleeting silence in which the details could be examined plainly, shining brilliantly like sun reflecting off of polished glass.

Or diamonds.

* * *

><p><em>Diamonds<em>.

Of course that wouldn't be it, Charles reflected. That would be expected – obvious – and so it would be something else, something stored amidst boxes upon boxes of the glittering pressurized carbon. Something of intrinsically little value by comparison, but worth its weight in diamonds if one understood the importance.

He didn't. Not yet.

But he would.

"Box 1895," Margot had said, handing him the small key and a few sparse sheets of paper containing the barest amount of information. The key hadn't left his possession since; Charles could feel its light weight resting in the pocket against his heart.

"How do you feel about Antwerp?" he asked as a cup of coffee – perfectly prepared – was placed in front of him.

"I've never fucked anyone in Belgium before," Dominique said cheerfully. "And you can buy me diamonds."

* * *

><p>"Hullo, Mrs. Hudson."<p>

Leaning down to give her a kiss on the cheek, Sherlock was pleased to note the subtle hint of perfume, the new dress, the hair that had been styled with some care. She was feeling more herself again, less worried about her security in the house and her late husband's reach. John's presence was helping – as was the fact that she knew nothing of what had happened to Jamie.

John poked his head around the corner, throwing a smile Sherlock's way. There was no falseness behind it – the doctor was genuinely relaxed, no tension from the night before was evident in his posture or expression. And – Sherlock was more than a little gratified to note – John still retained some of the post-sex glow from that afternoon. He felt a twinge of pride that made his lips twitch, and John's cheeks reddened slightly.

"I'm just helping John make dinner, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "I'll be out of your hair in a jiff. I don't want to be a bother when you have such a lovely evening planned."

"You are never a bother," Sherlock replied with a smile. "It's always wonderful to see you. Oh, I've arranged for someone to come in and assess the insulation in the attic and the roofing. Do you need the windows checked as well?"

"Sherlock, you are an angel, and I don't know what I'd do without you. But not just yet. Maybe in the summer, when I could stand having them out if they need to be replaced."

"Of course. Whenever you'd like," he replied, shifting the small load he carried in one arm for a better grip.

"And what's this you brought?" she asked, nodding to the package.

"Sheets."

"Sheets?" John asked from the kitchen doorway as Mrs. Hudson pressed her fingertips to her lips, trying to contain a smile.

"Yes. Mrs. Hudson, you would not believe the quality of linens John's been sleeping on. And requiring me to sleep on when I'm here. It's absolutely unacceptable. I'd rather be comfortable when I'm in bed – no matter what I'm doing."

John's blush deepened as he tried to avoid Mrs. Hudson's gaze.

"Just look at the pair of you," she sighed. "It's so lovely to see young people happy and in love." Sherlock's smile widened when John ducked back behind the relative shelter of the kitchen door.

"I'd best go," Mrs. Hudson murmured. "You'll want to be alone. But come by for tea soon, young man."

"I will," Sherlock promised, giving her another kiss on the cheek. She bustled out, making sure to shut the door behind her with a definite click that made Sherlock's lips twitch into a grin.

"You didn't have to do that," John protested when Sherlock slipped into the kitchen.

"If I have to wait for you to move in, then I will wait in comfort," Sherlock said firmly. "And you'll like them. One of the sets is silk."

The blush, never far from John's cheeks, returned again. He ducked his head, but not quickly enough for Sherlock to miss the smile that crossed his face.

"I'll go put them on."

"Have you ever made a bed in your life?" John asked with a chuckle.

"John, I run a successful multinational corporation. I can be relied upon to make a bed."

"That doesn't answer my question," John shot back quickly.

"Finish cooking," Sherlock replied. "You can examine my handiwork later. Of course, after that, I intend that I'll have to do it all over again."

* * *

><p>John's steady breathing was a soft counterpoint to the sounds of the city outside. The doctor had settled on his back, a position that seemed better for his shoulder. Sherlock lay in the darkness, comfortable on the silk sheets, tracing absent patterns on John's bare stomach.<p>

It was louder than his own flat, even in the middle of the night. The hum of traffic never ceased entirely. It wasn't enough to have kept Sherlock awake had he wanted to sleep, and John didn't seem bothered by it in the slightest. It was probably a blissful silence compared to the sounds of an army base in an active warzone.

Sherlock's fingertips registered all the changes in John's skin – fine hairs, the definition of muscles, goose bumps – the way his ears registered the nocturnal noises outside. Everything was processed and catalogued, but automatically, without much attention directed at the details.

It was peaceful, in its own way. Given time to think about it, Sherlock understood the appeal of living here for John. It had a homey feel, close to a good friend and to Mrs. Hudson, who mothered everyone. It was central, putting John right into the thick of the hustle and bustle of London – as he must have been in Bastion.

In another life, Sherlock thought perhaps he might have been happy living here. His own flat was also central, but the height kept him removed. He'd chosen it for that reason – he was above but not apart. The only distractions that reached him where the ones he chose.

John was a bigger distraction than most, but he couldn't argue the choice. Perhaps he should have worried that his attention was being divided. A year ago, six month ago, three months ago – if someone had told him this was about to happen, he would have been appalled. Certain it would ruin his concentration. Sure in his conviction that it wasn't necessary. Dismayed at himself for the weakness.

He didn't feel weak, and wondered if he should. Jim had called it that. Others would, too. Jim was the biggest threat but by no means the only one. Sherlock had more leverage than most, and held many of his other competitors back through debts or respect, but those were not guarantees. John was a strength, but also a weakness that could be used against him – already had been once.

His partner stirred, a meaningless murmured word slipping from his lips. Sherlock stilled his hand, waiting until John settled back into sleep before resuming his absentminded tracery.

He lay in the darkness, listening to and touching John, and thought.

* * *

><p>"What do you think?"<p>

His voice sounded almost like a stranger's, echoing back oddly. Down here, the sounds of the city didn't reach them and it was silent in a way he wasn't used to. No background noise at all, save for the faint sounds of someone standing silently beside him.

Cheryl was quiet for a long moment, considering, lips turned down in concentration before a slow smile spread over them.

"It's perfect," she replied.

"I'll give you some names when Sherlock's signed off on it," Gabriel said.

"Oh, he'll be pleased." Cheryl paused, letting the silence creep back in. "It's a work of art," she murmured, more to herself than to him, Gabriel thought.

"Let's go," he said. "I can't stand much more. It's too bloody quiet."

* * *

><p>This time it was a fire, and nothing caused as much chaos as a good fire. Easy enough to start – grease in the kitchen was an old standby. Easy enough to move around unnoticed after the alarm had been sounded – no one paid attention in their attempts to get to safety.<p>

He knew precisely how much time he had; he'd started the fire, after all. It would spread quickly – he'd seen to it – but not in the direction he was going.

Not before he'd had time to liberate the briefcase he'd come for.

In the panic, its owner had forgotten it. There would be a price to pay for that, for not knowing better than to abandon it.

But it wouldn't be his to pay. At the end of this, there would be a bonus on top of the regular pay that kept them in comfort.

His sister was waiting on the crowded Hong Kong street, nearly indistinguishable from the night in her black leathers. The fire behind him reflected in her visor, looking too tiny for the heat he could feel on his back. She didn't say anything as he slipped onto the bike nimbly behind her, anonymity falling over him as he pulled on his own helmet.

In the darkness and the panic, they were only two more people fleeing the scene.


	104. Chapter 104

The faint echo of retreating footsteps faded after the door had closed, leaving Charles alone in the vault with assurances that if _M. Ruisseau_ had any needs they would be met. The small metal box gleamed dully in the blue-white fluorescent light, non-descript, no different from the hundreds of others that lined the walls around him. The red indicator lights on the security cameras were extinguished – a promise of privacy, that there were no eyes on him, electronic or otherwise.

Inside, a small, slim envelope. Not the diamonds that inhabited the surrounding boxes; if Jim had diamonds, he wouldn't keep them in a place so obvious as Antwerp. Box 1895 had been left undisturbed long enough for the envelope to take on a vague outline of the contents, for the glue on the flap to begin to dry right at the edges.

A few minutes careful work had the seal completely broken without ripping or tearing, and Charles tipped the sole piece of Jim's treasure into his palm. A faint smile crossed his lips, not quite reaching his eyes.

Another key, not unlike the one he'd brought with him here today. But not for this bank; a quick assessment was enough to reveal that. Slightly smaller, wrong colour.

No markings on the key, no accompanying paperwork. Jim's man had probably never known what was in this box – he'd likely been proud of being responsible for some treasure, but had he seen that treasure, he wouldn't have understood it.

Neither did Charles. Not yet. But information was like diamonds. If one dug deep enough, there was always more.

The envelope was returned to the box, the key slipped into his inner breast pocket, along with its companion. A few days in Antwerp would give him time to mull over it, let it settle before he returned to Paris and turned his attention to the key's identity.

For now, Dominique was waiting in the large and comfortable hotel bed, and Charles had the promise of diamonds to fulfil.

* * *

><p>The contents of the briefcase had already proven themselves useful – the report of two Chinese nationals arrested when they'd landed at Heathrow made Gabriel smiled. The briefcase they'd so desperately been chasing had been hand delivered by a smiling and innocuous young Chinese woman who had made it through customs without any difficulties – and who had very likely been on the same flight as her compatriots. He'd sent her to enjoy the city while he puzzled over the latest information.<p>

Most of it was financial – bank accounts, the majority of which had been seized by the Chinese government while the detainees-to-be had been in midflight. Some of them had been emptied and closed before the authorities had so helpfully been alerted.

There was one document that differed from the rest, but Gabriel had seen its close cousins before. A security rota. Without any identifying information. It could have been for anywhere, but he doubted it was unrelated. It wasn't the same as the Pentonville schedule, nor did it have a date associated with it.

But he had a date, and another known location. It would take some doing, but he had the time for it. It was worth doing properly, going unnoticed, and drawing no attention to himself. If he was right, it meant another piece of the puzzle falling neatly into place.

A knock on the door distracted him, and he looked up to meet Michael's serious expression.

"The taxi you ordered is here."

"I didn't order a taxi," Gabriel said, suppressing a sudden flash of anxiety – his brother's remains were at the bottom of the Thames and Jim wouldn't be so stupid as to try that again, especially here.

"You did, believe me," Michael replied. Gabriel was about to argue, but the subtle shift in his assistant's expression was enough to quell the words before they reached his lips; he nodded instead, scrawling a brief note in coded shorthand on the sheet in front of him.

"Give this to Mister Holmes," he said, passing the slim file across his desk. For the first time in a long time, he felt cumbersome on his crutches again, slow and clumsy, and recognized it for what it was. Gabriel left the sensation deliberately behind, taking with him only the ease and confidence he'd need to control situation was about to present itself.

And his gun.

* * *

><p>The eyes that met his in the rear-view mirror were familiar and Gabriel repressed a sigh. There would be no threat in this cab. Gabriel trusted very few people fully and this man wasn't in that group – but he trusted the fake cabbie not to endanger him.<p>

"Sorry about this, Mister Mitchell," the tone was deferential and had the ring of a real apology, "but he insisted on talking to you in person."

"And I've explained to him why that's not possible."

"Me too. But have you ever tried arguing with a cop?"

_Yes,_ Gabriel thought, waving a hand for the driver to proceed. He expected the engine to hum back to life; instead, a hat was passed back through the small opening in the divider.

Gabriel resisted the urge to roll his eyes – the whole thing seemed straight out of some terrible detective movie, but he understood the necessity. Jim knew him on sight, even if that sight was in shadow and through someone else's eyes.

He adjusted to sit without looking like he was in a cast; it was uncomfortable with his leg pressed against the seat, but it would make a difference. The night lent some anonymity, but not enough to trust he would be completely unobserved.

They drove until he wanted to stop paying attention to where they were, a temptation he resisted – it wouldn't do him any good to be irresponsible and Sherlock had trained him better than that. When the car finally pulled over, he breathed an inward sigh of relief, and an idle moment passed before the other passenger door opened and DI Dimmock joined him.

Gabriel didn't bother reminding the detective that they weren't meant to meet – he was here now, rendering that point moot. The DI had stuck with his end of the bargain so far and it wasn't Gabriel at risk should Jim find out about that. Judging by the tension he could see in the set if Dimmock's muscles and the small, nervous movements, the DI was well aware of that fact, too.

"What is it that you need to tell me?" Gabriel asked, keeping his tone calm and neutral. Dimmock's eyes flickered to the glass separator, uneasy, hesitant; before Gabriel could begin to lean forward, the driver reached back and slid the panel shut.

"Something I'm not supposed to know," Dimmock said after a moment's pause. "I don't know most of it."

"You could have told him," Gabriel replied, nodding briefly toward the front of the car.

"They caught that doctor of yours, John Watson. I don't know where it came from, but it was definitely someone inside the force."

"Yes, I know. It's been dealt with. If that's–"

"It's not. It's just why I wanted to tell you. He's got people everywhere, you know."

"So have we."

"But I wanted you to hear it from me. It's better if you know what I know."

Gabriel nodded, sitting back, hands resting lightly on his legs, posture open and supportive. The last time he'd spoken to Dimmock, the DI had been using anger to cover his fear, furious at having been called at home, livid at being given orders by someone whom he thought of as little more than a child.

This time there was no anger.

"It has something to do with the Bank of England. I have no idea what – I wasn't supposed to know, but I overheard. Not enough to tell you what he's planning but something big."

"Why not go to your superiors about this? The Met are far better equipped to counter a bank heist than we are."

"I don't know who he has on the force – other than me, I mean. It could be anyone. And even if they weren't his, they'd want to know how I know. Names, specifics. I've got no idea what he's up to."

Gabriel nodded slowly, tuning out the soft sounds of anxious shifting as he thought.

"You may not know what," he said, "but do you know when?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock kept a watchful eye on John's flat to ensure that no one else was. Eyes on the street were one thing, eyes inside were quite another. He swept regularly for bugs and hidden cameras, and had sent in some specialists, under the guise of repair men, to do a more thorough job.<p>

Spending more time here necessitated that he work, which required Baker Street to be as secure as his own flat.

And John's stubbornness about not moving meant Sherlock had to work harder to ensure his partner's security.

He had commandeered a desk – although he never left anything behind, it was easier to have a space dedicated to his work. The file Michael had delivered from Gabriel required his attention, but had been forced to wait while he met other deadlines. Now, in the relative quiet of John's flat at midnight, Sherlock flipped open the folder, let his eyes skim the few sheets inside, and smiled.

A quick but careful search confirmed what Gabriel had suspected, and the conclusion fit nicely with the best theory Sherlock had developed regarding Jim's plans at the Tower. Briefly –_ very_ briefly – he considered warning his brother, just for the sheer look of horror that Mycroft would wear, but the opportunity to gloat had to be passed over for this.

A quiet sound made him look up while automatically closing and stowing the file in his laptop case. John emerged from the bedroom, looking rumpled and sleepy, leaning against the archway.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

"I had some things I had to take care of," Sherlock replied. A flash of regret crossed John's features as his muscles prepared to push him away from the wall. He was already nodding when Sherlock continued, "I've done what I can for now. I'll come to bed."

A soft smile melted the resignation on John's face; Sherlock felt a pang of guilt that startled him. His work wasn't a surprise to his partner, and John needed more sleep than he did. There was no reason to feel guilt that he did as he crossed the room to brush his lips over John's. The doctor tasted of warmth and sleep – an appealing combination. John's fingers entwined with his, tugging gently, and Sherlock let himself be led back to the bedroom.

* * *

><p>When John awoke in the morning, he was alone again.<p>

Without quite meaning to, he felt a dull flash of disappointment at the sight of the empty space beside him, the pillow that retained only the barest impression of Sherlock's head. Sherlock had left the bed long enough ago that the sheets had cooled.

John knew that sleep didn't come easily or in large quantities to Sherlock, but it would have been nice to wake up with him. It probably wasn't fair to expect that, because Sherlock did have to work, even if the start of John's day was delayed by having no appointments until late morning.

Knowing that didn't shake the desire to have Sherlock there. He'd probably already left; when John listened, the flat was silent. He checked his phone for any new messages but there weren't any, which probably meant a note had been left for him.

With a sigh, he sat up and stretched, trying to dispel the lingering lethargy from his muscles. He may not have patients first thing, but it was too enervating to lie in bed at all hours. He needed something to do, even if it was just making a morning cup of coffee.

John padded into the living room and stopped short, startled by Sherlock's presence on his sofa.

"Good morning," his partner said with a smile, marking his page in the book he'd been reading. It was one of his novels, John realized. And Sherlock was dressed in some of his clothing – a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt – rather than his suit. The sight stirred something in John, a combination of desire and possessiveness that didn't quite displace the surprise.

"I thought you'd gone," he said. "To work."

"At six am?" Sherlock replied, arching a dark eyebrow. "Hardly."

"Did you sleep?" John asked.

"No. I thought you might not appreciate someone tossing and turning next to you all night, so I came out here. It makes no sense for both of us to be restless, and I'd rather work if I can't sleep."

"That's work?" John asked, nodding to the novel in Sherlock's hand.

"It's terrible," Sherlock replied, and John felt his lips twitch into a smile. "Plot holes, poor character development, important events hinging on the most implausible coincidences."

"You don't believe in coincidence?"

"Anyone who doesn't must lead a terribly boring life, but there are limits. This," he held up the book for emphasis, "not only stretches those limits, but shatters them. Really, the position of a spear held by a statue is supposed to point to some vital clue hidden by an ancient secret society? I'm surprised no one is wearing a tin foil hat."

"You're almost two thirds through," John pointed out. "It can't be that bad."

"I keep thinking that the author is setting up a very elaborate joke."

"Nope," John said with a grin. "It's all like that."

"And yet you own it," Sherlock replied.

"You'd be amazed at what you'll read in the desert when there's absolutely nothing else to do."

"I am indeed amazed," Sherlock murmured. John's grin widened and he leaned in for a quick kiss.

"Want some breakfast?" he asked, pushing himself to his feet.

"Coffee is fine."

"Coffee is not breakfast," John said firmly. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but the doctor waited until he got a nod.

"Fine, then. Whatever you want."

"I'll put that back for you, too, if you'd like."

"No, I've begun it, now I've got to finish it."

With a laugh, John bent down to press a kiss onto the top of Sherlock's head and left him curled up with the dog eared novel.

A sense of quiet returned to the flat, but now it made him smile – there was a warmth to it, and it was nice to know he wasn't alone. It felt odd, him making breakfast, Sherlock reading a crap novel. _Almost like we were a normal couple_, John mused as poured the coffee.

A faint creak made him look up as Sherlock came into the kitchen. John started to ask what was wrong, but Sherlock put a finger against his lips, silencing the words before kissing him softly.

Long fingers combed through his hair, coming to rest on the back of his neck, where Sherlock's thumb dug slow circles into the muscles at the base of John's skull. Sherlock's other arm wrapped around his waist, hand resting on the small of John's back, exerting a gentle pressure. Lips pressed against his temple, warm but undemanding.

He was hesitating, he realized. Holding himself taut and at the ready – but ready for what, he wasn't sure. With a deep breath, John allowed himself to relax and stepped into the embrace, Sherlock's arm tightening around him as he did so. He felt the faint twitch of muscles as they formed a smile against his temple. Sherlock kissed him again, then rested his chin on John's head.

John smiled to himself and wound his arms around Sherlock's waist, letting himself enjoy the warm, peaceful moment.


	105. Chapter 105

It was time to build new walls or move the ones he had, fit them around him again to make him invisible, to stop the parade of prying observers who wandered too close to his doors, who tested his defences without even knowing they were his.

They had found weaknesses. They had stumbled upon weaknesses, really. Luck. He always made his own but other people – _ordinary _people – had to rely on the _chance_ of coming close to him, of some slip of paper or whispered word that led to a discovery, to a confiscation, to an arrest.

The money was a way of keeping score.

Without it, there would be no points to tally.

Leaving London was always like walking on ice, through fog – treacherous, uncertain. Travelling in the company of _ordinary_ people except they weren't keeping him company, no. Buffeting him like he was one of _them_, unaware of the watcher in their midst, having no comprehension of how his web was spun out over them, touching them, invisible, pulling them in. Some of them were undoubtedly his – they were meaningless, lambs for the slaughter should he need one. When he needed one.

Sebastian was light, was oxygen. A rock in the flowing crowds, keeping them at bay. Keeping everything at bay. Bruises invisible under clothing – a costume of sorts, that suit he wore, fitting in seamlessly with the uniform of business in Zurich. No discomfort in his movements, practice of a lifetime of going unnoticed, but there had been discomfort before, when Jim had inflicted them. And again when the rage had flared back to life, seeking an outlet on an already marked body.

He felt it again, like a stab of a cigarette into soft skin, like a needle in his eye. New York. Afghanistan. Hong Kong. Greece. There was too much talk, all of it between police agencies, too much action, too much _luck_. Overstepping their bounds, not understanding that this was not their place. He was beyond them. Like hounds with a scent only there would be no more scent, the old trails wiped clean as polished shoes rang over a gleaming floor, as his hand was shaken solicitously, as he was greeted deferentially – as it should be – as his needs were seen to and the money – the score – was moved and moved again and tucked away and made safe and Sebastian with his invisible bruises kept watch and said nothing.

* * *

><p>Sebastian chose his time and location with care. Jim was prone to dramatics when he was provoked – the new bruises that had joined the ones inflicted a few days ago were proof of that. But discomfort was nothing and when the rage had burnt off, Jim was calm again, that eerie composure that covered the mad brilliance but never quelled it.<p>

He'd agreed with Sebastian's plan in the end – a crowd in daylight would draw unwanted attention.

A single bullet amidst the small group of men sent a stronger message. Jim had done his homework. He always did. The information about the Hong Kong accounts had been traced back here. There were no names that could be linked to Jim, of course – just as there hadn't been today. Security footage would be dealt with, but that would never reach any of the managers who had so graciously and eagerly accepted Jim's money.

This message would, even if they'd never know who sent it.

Sebastian stayed long enough to watch the fresh corpse hit the ground, not long enough to see the fallout. The chaos and confusion held no interest for him, the way it would for Jim. He preferred the shadows and the silence to the noise and drama of other people. And Jim would want him back soon.

* * *

><p>"He's in Switzerland, moving money."<p>

"As expected," Sherlock replied. "It won't be all of it, but find out how much."

A faint smirk crossed Gabriel's lips – nothing was impossible when one knew the right people and the right questions to ask.

"He needs to keep some of it here, close to home," Sherlock continued. "His clients won't like it if it looks as though he's ready to run."

There was a quiet snort in response to this, and Sherlock agreed with the sentiment. Genius held no conditions for sanity.

Although a man in Jim's current position might be forgiven some paranoia. If he'd had the presence of mind to step back and look more carefully – if he had any means of knowing who was behind the strings being pulled – he would have been more alarmed.

Sherlock preferred the edginess to actual terror. Fear might inspire real action, even in Jim. Anger and inconvenience would cloud what judgement he had.

"Any news on _The Falls_?" he enquired.

"I think we might know where it is, but I've got to confirm it. I don't see why it matters, though; it's not worth that much."

"It's a symbol," Sherlock replied. "Never underestimate their power, Gabriel – _especially_ to a madman. Jim does love his symbols."

* * *

><p>The key was a puzzle that had part of his mind occupied at all times, the need for a solution constantly reinforced by its presence in his breast pocket. When other work required his attention, Charles left a small part of his thoughts occupied by the riddle, kept a watchful eye on anything that crossed his desk for some clue. Margot's work was detailed but had yet to reveal anything of significance. He doubted it would; Jim's man in France wouldn't have been given all of the information.<p>

But there were other tasks to attend to – the transfer of property that made up the dull, legal side of their business, the transfer of goods that made the work worthwhile. The careful placement of information in Interpol's path via Dominique. Small arrests among their people – and others – that Jim Moriarty would note and take as proof that he was not being singled out.

The solution was in the information that came to him from London, from Sherlock's desk to his through trusted and secure channels. Charles had seen portions of it before, but Sherlock had put it all together, illuminating the answer in an instant.

Pentonville Prison.

The Tower of London.

The Bank of England.

For a moment it seemed too simple. He knew Jim had been in Switzerland – but that which was most important wouldn't be kept at a distance. He would need it close to home, in a place where he could access it whenever he might need to.

The key Charles held wouldn't be the only one, of course. What would be next to impossible for anyone would be a simple matter for Jim – he would know someone who knew someone and this key would be security. He would have one of his own and rest easier in the knowledge that if something happened, he had the assurance of another in the hands of a man who didn't know what it was for. A man whose intellectual abilities were nowhere near a match for Jim's own, who could be trusted not to put the pieces together.

Trust was a dangerous thing.

It hadn't occurred to Jim to bother with his former lieutenant's assistant. A mere secretary – and a woman at that.

Charles smiled. A short trip to London under his own name with his own passport. That would draw attention – precisely the kind he wanted. Easy enough to verify, too, should someone think to check Dominique's text messages.

_I'll be in London for the rest of the weekend_, he sent. _Be sure to enjoy yourself while I'm away._

* * *

><p>Someone had accessed his email. It should have been impossible. For anyone but the three people to whom he'd given directions, it would have been. The need was infrequent but not entirely uncommon; in this case, Charles had used Sherlock's email to send himself instructions to come to London at once.<p>

It merited an arched eyebrow and a moment's thought as he skimmed through the flight itinerary and the hotel booking. The brief text read only that Charles was on his way. No clue was given as to why – but it would have been disappointing after all these years if Charles had failed him that way.

Sherlock tugged his bottom lip between his teeth as he thought. After a moment's hesitation, he rang his partner, still somehow surprised by the warm smile in John's voice when he answered the phone.

"I have a late meeting," Sherlock began. "I'm not sure when I'll be done." He could almost feel the disappointment across the line – and the way John tried to quell it. "Why don't you go to my flat? You don't need to wait up. I'll be home as soon as I can. I'll cook you breakfast tomorrow," he added as an extra incentive, wondering privately if pouring cereal and milk counted as 'cooking'.

The smile had returned to John's voice when he answered yes, and Sherlock felt conflicting pangs of relief and guilt – there was no lie in this, not precisely.

"I'll see you when you get in, then," John agreed.

"I'll try not to wake you."

"You'd better wake me," John contradicted with a chuckle. "I have some plans."

"And what might those be?"

"You'll find out. Motivation for you to get home sooner."

"It may work," Sherlock murmured, and John laughed before ringing off.

For a moment, Sherlock sat in the silence of his office, gazing at John's name until the screen went blank and shook him back to himself. There were arrangements to be made – he sent for Gerald to fetch Charles at the airport and set himself back to the work he'd been doing prior to the email interruption. It was tempting – and would have been simple – to leave a part of his mind churning over the reason for Charles' abrupt visit, but it would have served no purpose. He had no information and saw no use in theorizing without any facts.

Time slid by quickly and quietly until Gerald was back for him. The trip to the hotel was uneventful, with the last of the evening commuter traffic long gone. He made sure to linger in the lobby, checking his phone – waiting for Charles to give him the room number made it a genuine delay and gave those who were watching a chance to see him.

Sherlock put a slight urgency in his step and feigned nonchalance for the cameras in the lift. He was greeted at the non-descript numbered door by Charles, who was without a jacket and tie, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the two buttons at his collar undone. A sly, lazy smile crossed the Frenchman's lips as he stepped back to let Sherlock inside.


	106. Chapter 106

"This was a fantastic idea."

"I've been known to have them from time to time," Gabriel replied with a smile.

"I'll get the food," Sandra said, leaning in for a quick kiss.

"I can manage!" Gabriel protested.

"You can _almost_ manage. Get the film set up, and I'll take care of this."

She tempered a warning look with another kiss and Gabriel relented, limping into the living room to settle on the couch. The faint sound of Sandra moving around in the kitchen was the only noise in the flat, and it struck him suddenly that he'd both missed and become used to this. Without Sandra – and Sam, who was currently curled up in front of the fireplace, her nose pressed into her tail – his flat seemed almost oppressively silent.

"Of course, once that leg's healed, I'll expect you to take me out and show me a good time," Sandra commented, returning with two plates laden with pizza, each precariously balancing a bottle of beer.

"I'll have to rebuild my strength somehow," Gabriel replied.

"Oh I can think of lots of ways to do that," Sandra said, her eyes glinting mischievously. "Starting with that hill walking trip in York."

"You're entirely too ambitious."

"I am not," she replied easily. "You'd love it. I'd love it. Sam would love it." At the mention of her name, the little dog opened an eye, regarded them both curiously, and went back to sleep.

"You'd be miles ahead of me."

"We'll go later in the summer," Sandra said, jabbing his boot lightly with her toe. "You've got to lose this thing first anyway."

"I thought we'd go next month."

"Next month? Gabe, you'll probably still be wearing that. You won't be able to go hill walking in it, believe me."

"To York I mean, not the countryside. I can walk around if there's proper pavement. I thought it might be nice to get away."

"Get away from what?" Sandra asked, running her fingers through his hair.

"Everything. Work. It's been ages since I've had a real holiday."

"Why don't we go this weekend?" she asked.

"I can't," Gabriel replied, shaking his head. "The next few weeks are going to be busy. It'll be a few days late, but we can celebrate your birthday there. And it gives me something to look forward to. That'll get me through."

"All right," Sandra said with a smile, kissing him lightly. "A belated birthday in York it is."

* * *

><p>"There will be a third," Charles said.<p>

_Yes_, Sherlock mused. _There would be._ Symbols.

He smiled to himself, to the small key in the palm of his hand. Charles was leaning against the low dresser, arms folded, watching him patiently. All business, any hint of suggestion gone from his posture, waiting as Sherlock thought.

Three places, three names.

The prison, the Tower, the bank. Reichenbach, Richard Ruisseau, Richard Brook. The last courtesy of Charles, who had spent the time before and during his travels finding out that one missing piece of information.

Jim loved his games.

And they kept him distracted, kept him occupied as pieces were taken out, blocking his view of the whole board.

_It's so easy to fall_, Sherlock thought, his smile twitching.

"Good work," he said, glancing up to see an arched dark eyebrow.

"There's a little Mediterranean island one of our clients is looking to sell," Charles replied. "I want it."

"When this is all over, it's yours," Sherlock promised.

* * *

><p><em>It's so easy to fall.<em>

He had Gerald drive a longer route, taking the extra time to tame the hair he'd tousled then hastily smoothed down, to readjust his tie and straighten his cuffs. He'd learned young – from Mycroft's scrutiny – to assume that he was always being observed as much as he was observing. The lesson had stayed with him, and he'd trained himself to show people what they wanted to see. A man hurriedly leaving a hotel in the middle of the night after a few hours in the room of a _former_ lover – no one would notice the outline of the key now residing in his breast pocket.

It was easy to fall.

In the darkness of the car, the words shaded to a different meaning. Sherlock lit a cigarette, recognized the displacement activity for what it was, smoked it anyway. There was a familiar tension in his muscles, an antsy, buzzing feeling in his mind. The nicotine helped but the calm centre he chased eluded him, just out of reach.

He needed something stronger.

He was headed for something stronger.

_Easy to fall_, he told himself again with a wry smirk before leaning forward, the last of the cigarette glowing between his fingers, to tell Gerald to head home.

* * *

><p>"You've moved things around."<p>

The comment was given almost casually, but the slight undertone of a question didn't escape Sherlock's notice. Nothing had changed in the living room beyond the superficial – John was using the blanket usually draped over a chair and had an open bottle of beer on the coffee table. But it wasn't this room to which he was referring.

Sherlock had made it obvious without commenting on it, letting it draw attention to itself.

"A bit, yes," he agreed.

"Why?" John asked. "It looks a bit – odd, if you don't mind my saying. There's too much space now."

"Enough space for another dresser," Sherlock said. There was a pause before realization dawned, a combination of resignation and regret crossing John's features.

"Sherlock–"

"Should you ever want to put your dresser there," Sherlock continued. "You've put a lot of work into it. I can't imagine you'd be happy to abandon it."

John was silent for a moment, closing the book he'd been reading before shaking his head, his eyes dropping away.

"Thank you," he said, meeting Sherlock's gaze again. "But– are you sure? Your flat–"

"Is _my_ flat. Right now. You did say something about this being a joint decision. You might even go so far as to point out that I've learned something about compromise." He held up a hand quickly, earning a slight smile from John. "But please don't feel obliged to do so."

John tossed the blanket aside and closed the space between them, arms folded, the smile still playing on his lips.

"I'm not sure," he said. "For a proper genius, you seem a bit slow to catch on."

"Failing to apply the lessons I've learned doesn't mean I've failed to learn them," Sherlock replied.

"Ah. You _are_ too clever for your own good."

"Mine and many others."

"Where've you been anyway?" John asked. "You look– odd."

"Odd? Yes, thank you, John. You certainly know how to charm a man, don't you?" Sherlock replied, tempering the words with a twitch of the lips that didn't quite hide a smile.

"I didn't mean–"

"Oh, you meant 'odd' in a good way?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I meant you look as though you've won some kind of contest but the winning's worried you."

"Now who's odd?" Sherlock sighed.

"Still you," John replied. "And you've been smoking."

"Very observant."

"Well you smell of it. It's not exactly subtle, you know."

"I'm not trying to hide it," Sherlock assured him.

"I didn't think you were – although I don't mind you not doing it around me. As a doctor, I could point out all the risks."

"An army surgeon lecturing me on risks?" Sherlock asked.

"Former army surgeon," John corrected.

"This job _has_ proven entirely benign, hasn't it?"

"No one's actively trying to kill me," John said. "That's a bonus. But I'm not sleeping with you like this. I prescribe a long, hot shower."

"As long as I don't have to do it on my own," Sherlock replied.

"Not a chance," John said with a grin.

* * *

><p>John turned the water on as hot as they could stand it and took his time massaging Sherlock's curls until his partner was nearly purring, head tilted back into John's hands, an expression of pure bliss on his face. But there was still tension underneath his fingers; he could feel it at the base of Sherlock's skull, down his neck. If it was bothering him, he kept it to himself, and took John to bed, pushing him onto the downy comforter and crawling up to kiss him everywhere.<p>

Afterwards, John drifted off to the sensation of Sherlock rubbing his thumb thoughtfully along his collarbone, over the ridges of scarred skin. He wanted to tell Sherlock to sleep too, and to ask what was keeping him from doing so, but when he turned his head, he was silenced by warm lips against his as slumber claimed him.

* * *

><p>The soft strains of sound nudged John gently back to consciousness sometime later. With an inward groan, he surrendered and blinked himself awake, passing an arm over his eyes as though that could ward off reality for a few seconds longer. The faint notes faded then came again, making him frown as his mind tried to make sense of the noise.<p>

Sherlock wasn't in bed, he realized belatedly, and there was a sliver of light stealing in underneath the door. John shuffled from the bed and drew the door open silently, waiting for his tired mind to catch up.

It was violin music.

He'd seen the instrument in Sherlock's flat – he'd even carefully opened the case earlier that night to look at it – but he'd never heard his partner play. As the mournful notes wound round him, John thought it shouldn't have surprised him that Sherlock played so well.

He didn't recognize the melody, but there was a haunting sadness to it. It kept him quiet as he crept down the hall, hovering just out of view past the archway into the living room. Sherlock had his back to John, a solitary figure in the warm lamplight, hardly moving except for his bow arm, reading off no music that John could see. He watched and listened, entranced, a sense of regret filling him as the music stirred memories of friends and family now gone, made him feel small and – in the midst of a city of millions – utterly alone.

What gave him away he didn't know, but Sherlock turned without stopping, glancing over his shoulders to meet John's gaze. A nod at the sofa beckoned him into room and John took a seat silently, not wanting to break the spell.

"That was– beautiful," he said when Sherlock finally finished. "And sad."

"It helps me think."

"Sad music helps you think?"

"Mm," his partner replied, the noncommittal sound affirmed by a nod. "I've often found that joy requires a focus all of its own."

"What do you need to think about with sad music at three in the morning?" John asked.

"Nothing important," Sherlock said as he replaced the violin carefully in its case. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I'm not," John replied. "I've never heard you play."

A slight smile crossed Sherlock's lips, just reaching his eyes, but there was something rueful behind his expression as well.

"Go back to bed," Sherlock told him, smoothing a palm against John's rough cheek, leaning down to press his lips briefly against John's forehead.

"I don't mind."

"You need your sleep, and I need to work," Sherlock replied.

"You work too much," John sighed.

"I'll come to bed soon," Sherlock promised. "And I will be there when you wake up."

John repressed another sigh with pursed lips but nodded; he was in no mood to start a row he'd never win.

"John." His name made him pause in the archway again. "I thought we might go visit your mother."

"My mother?" John asked. "Why?"

"You've met mine. You've met my entire family, in fact."

"Not your father," John pointed out. Sherlock blinked, looking somewhat surprised – almost, John thought, at the idea that he would have noted that absence.

"All the same," his partner said.

"We could," John agreed. "Although I think a bit longer before you meet Harry, okay?"

Sherlock's lips twitched – not quite a smile but close.

"Probably for the best."

"I'll call my mum in the morning." He hesitated, giving his head a small shake.

"Make it for this week. Please," Sherlock said.

"Any particular reason?" John asked, searching Sherlock's features for some hint as to the sudden rush, but his partner's expression was pleasantly neutral, which stirred a vague unease beneath the three a.m. fatigue.

"No time like the present."


	107. Chapter 107

"We don't negotiate with terrorists."

"You wound me, Mycroft, you really do. When have I ever inflicted terror on anyone?"

"Oh, during your entire childhood for start."

"Being a child is what children do. It's hardly terrorism."

"With you, it amounts to the same thing. However, you may be right. You're a thief, not a terrorist."

"Nicking your action men hardly makes me a thief."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow coolly, which Sherlock met with a small, pleasant smile.

"No, but 'nicking' fortunes does. I never did understand why you didn't go into politics, Sherlock. You'd have been brilliant at it."

"I'm brilliant anyway," Sherlock replied offhandedly. "And I don't like being told what to do. Tedious."

"Yes, I do know that," Mycroft muttered, not quite under his breath. "But nor do I. You'll notice that's why I'm the one making the rules – and the one saying no to whatever it is you've come to ask for."

"Have I come to ask for something?" Sherlock replied.

"Coming yourself instead of sending Gabriel? Or have you just stopped in for tea? An unexpected social call, perhaps?"

"I was rather hoping Angela would be here," Sherlock said. "I suppose I can pass on my congratulations to you instead. I do look forward to having a niece. Have you picked a name?"

Mycroft gave him a long look, assessing whether or not he was lying; Sherlock kept his expression open and honest until his brother gave a quiet snort of disbelief.

"We have, as a matter of fact. Sibyl Olivia."

"Ah, keeping with the family tradition, I see."

"We'll call her Olivia, of course, since our mother is still alive. But it sounds better than Olivia Sibyl."

"Well done all around," Sherlock said pleasantly.

"You can't expect me to believe that's the reason you've made an appearance. A card would have sufficed."

"I'll be sure to send one. But I believe you've already said no to whatever it is I was about to propose?"

He matched Mycroft's stare with his own, marking the moment his brother relented.

"It's not going to involve… legwork, is it?"

"Not unless you've suddenly become especially bad at your job. You have people to do the necessary moving around for you, and there won't be much of it, I assure you."

"Very well," Mycroft sighed. "What is it you need?"

"Nothing, actually. I have something for you."

At this, a flicker of interest past through his brother's grey eyes, indiscernible to anyone but him – and only because he'd been watching carefully for it.

"Are you familiar with _The Falls of Reichenbach_?"

"That blasted stolen painting?" Mycroft asked. "They had three experts swear it was genuine – I suppose you're responsible for it."

"Not in the least," Sherlock said happily. "Too big a canvas and too small a price tag to be worth my time."

"Then what of it?"

"I happen to know where it is."

"It seems to me that would be a matter for our illustrious police force. You could certainly use a friend or two there, and they'd be falling all over themselves to wipe away the stain the first recovery left."

"Yes, well, I'm not inclined to think highly of them at the moment," Sherlock said, an unintended edge of anger slipping into his voice.

"My, my, the good Doctor Watson really has got under your skin, hasn't he?"

"Angela, David, and Olivia," Sherlock snapped and holding his brother's dark gaze for a long moment before they each relaxed cautiously. Sherlock inhaled a slow deep breath, letting the unease fade. "Does the name William McKinney mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does," Mycroft sighed. "Although your sudden ability to name Members of Parliament is impressive."

"Not as impressive as Mister McKinney's commitments. An appointment to the Ministry of Justice. A member of several international committees on health, education, and women's rights in developing countries. An active proponent of anti-gang policies in London and a supporter of at least three organizations that provide assistance to victims of violence. A generous patron of the arts. A husband, a father, and a grandfather."

"Survive in politics long enough and almost anyone will have equivalent qualifications," Mycroft sighed.

"And on Jim Moriarty's payroll."

"What?" Mycroft demanded sharply.

"For at least eight years," Sherlock said.

"How long have you known this?"

"Long enough," Sherlock replied, holding up a hand to forestall his brother's angry retort. "It wasn't relevant until now, Mycroft."

"That's not for you to decide, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped.

"Seeing as how it was my information, yes, it was."

"I suppose now you'll tell me he has this blasted painting."

"He can if you want him to."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair slowly, regarding him; Sherlock kept his expression neutral, hoping to give nothing away – although Mycroft always took something . A lifetime under that gaze and something inside of him was still categorized as 'baby brother'.

"And in return?" his brother asked carefully. "What do you want?"

"Nothing except the satisfaction of knowing we've struck a blow for justice and England." He grinned when Mycroft snorted and rolled his eyes. "I will give you all of the information you need, Mycroft, free of charge – I ask only that you wait to apprehend him and recover this _blasted painting_ – as you put it – until I say so."

* * *

><p>"And here."<p>

Sherlock signed his name, waited for the ink to dry. Copies of the documents were passed to himself and Gabriel before the solicitors left. Tina hovered a moment, awaiting instructions; Sherlock dismissed her with his thanks, catching the displeasure tightening the corners of her lips as she turned away. He liked it no more than she did – less, even – but it never paid to be careless.

The click of the door settled a silence between them, not exactly uncomfortable, but not particularly conducive to conversation.

"You sure about this?" Gabriel asked.

"A bit late to be enquiring, isn't it?" Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow. His associate sighed, giving his head a slight shake, not quite meeting his eyes. "Besides, Charles wouldn't thank me for forcing him to move here. Irene's lived here before; she knows the city and likes it. If it comes to it, she wouldn't mind."

Gabriel gave a distracted nod, gaze distant for all that his eyes were turned to the small pile of papers on Sherlock's desk. Sherlock felt a flash of impatience – this was hardly the first time they'd done this. He updated his records regularly and required those closest to him to do the same.

Still, he could admit, even if only to himself, that there was something different this time. He'd never had to account for anyone else before, but now John's future was secured – at least financially – with or without him.

"Right," Gabriel said, shaking himself out of his reverie and plucking the file meant for him off of the desk. "Work to do, isn't there?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Always."

* * *

><p><em>Taking him to meet your mum?<em>

"You shut it," John said with a feigned warning tone. Jamie grinned; John rolled his eyes.

_Do I hear wedding bells?_

"I don't know," John said. "Do you suffer auditory hallucinations?"

Jamie pitched a handy pen at him, laughing silently; John ducked easily, swiping his beer out of the way of any more potential assaults.

_It's all very domestic._

"Says the man who's spent the last few months making sure he buys matching furniture," John replied. Jamie didn't look abashed – if anything, his grin grew wider. "You should be practicing your Sign, you know."

_Don't change the subject. Besides, you're the one missing class on Saturday._

"I'm not," John said. "We're leaving after that. How else will I know you're not just making rude gestures at me?"

_You've met his family, he's meeting yours. Getting serious, if you asked me._

"Did I ask you?" John shot back with a chuckle. "Besides, how long will you wait before taking Tee to meet Ellie and her kids?" There was a flicker in Jamie's expression – he didn't quite look away but John caught it. "Oho! You've already got it planned, haven't you?"

'_Course not,_ Jamie texted with a silent scoff. _That's up to her._

"Uh huh," John replied. "Bet the kids would _love_ London, wouldn't they? I don't know if Tee's ever been to Edinburgh."

_Don't be stupid, of course she has. Has Sherlock ever been to the suburbs?_

John snorted, taking a sip of his beer.

"He's been everywhere."

_I'll just bet he has._

"Oi!" John pitched the pen back at Jamie, who caught it deftly with a grin. Tensing muscles pulled him away as it sailed immediately back, clattering over the floor boards. "Who taught you to aim, anyway? Couldn't hit the broad side of a barn."

_I'm better with bullets_, Jamie promised. John rolled his eyes, settling back into his chair.

"He wanted to meet my mum," he said with a slight shrug. "Can't say no to that."

_You're nervous._

"Why would I be nervous?"

_Cos you're a twit, probably. You've already met his mum. How bad could this be?_

"I don't think it will be bad at all," John said. "And I'm not nervous."

_Hello, Mum, this is Sherlock, the bloke I'm shagging._

"Well he's better than the last one," John said with a grin, but Jamie was right. It was stupid, but he _was_ nervous. Sherlock would charm John's mother as he did everyone else, and she would love him – but John would feel better when it was all over.

"Besides, _I'm_ not the one planning to have my girlfriend move in the minute she gets back."

_She's got to live somewhere_, Jamie pointed out with a shrug, and John didn't miss the small smile tugging at the edges of his lips, the faint light in his eyes.

"She could stay here," John pointed out.

_Nah, mate, you need your privacy_, Jamie replied with a wide grin. John rolled his eyes, but resisted pointing out they had Sherlock's flat as well – it would just encourage Jamie more, and John was already fighting down a blush remembering how Sherlock had catalogued – just that morning – the rooms and furniture they had yet to use in his flat. He'd highlighted a few he intended for them to use that week, and had given John the list, which had been hastily stuffed into his coat pocket.

He'd need to make one for his flat – but Sherlock had probably already drawn one up in his head.

"You're a prat," he said pleasantly to Jamie, who flashed him a bright grin.

_Wouldn't have it any other way._

* * *

><p>"Congratulations," Sherlock said, arching a dark eyebrow, inwardly pleased.<p>

"Thanks," Gabriel replied, easing himself into a chair. There was a deliberate care to his movements but a lightness to his appearance, and it was something a surprising relief to see him without crutches. He still wore the cast and thus hadn't entirely shaken the limp. It would be a few more weeks before the cast came off – but he was walking completely on his own. "Feels fantastic. I might run a marathon when this is all over." He paused briefly, the tone of his expression changing. "Speaking of which, what do you have for me?"

"Let it rest," Sherlock replied. A brief flicker of surprise passed through Gabriel's eyes, gone as soon as Sherlock had noted it. "Nothing to be done about the law enforcement we can't influence – but those whom we can, have them back off for now. Our own people will stop. Everything's in place that needs to be, at least for the moment."

Gabriel nodded, no questions or arguments in his expression.

"Have two of our own arrested. No one particularly important, but high enough up that Jim will take notice and be pleased."

"Should I warn them?" his associate asked.

"No," Sherlock replied dismissively. "Just ensure they can be replaced easily. Someone whose work has been lacking of late would be best – and most believable."

"It'll be done by the time you get back," Gabriel promised.

"Good," Sherlock murmured with a slight smile. "And see to it that I'm not disturbed this weekend."


	108. Chapter 108

"Mum, this is Sherlock Holmes."

John didn't miss the faint blush as Sherlock bent smoothly to kiss one of his mother's cheeks, murmuring a warm and courteous "Hello, Mrs. Watson".

"Call me Carol, dear," she replied. "It's so lovely to finally meet you. John's told me so much about you."

A quick glance and an arched eyebrow from his partner had John fighting the urge to clear his throat. There was a laughing gleam in his mother's eyes when she met his gaze and pulled him into a warm hug. John returned it gratefully – even after nearly two decades of living on his own, the smell of the house and the security of his mother's embrace still felt like coming home.

"Come in, come in," Carol chided gently. "Haven't you got any bags?"

"Gerald's bringing them," Sherlock said at the same time as John replied: "I booked a hotel room for the night."

Two sets of surprised eyes – one pale grey, one soft brown – turned his way in surprise.

"Whatever for?" Sherlock asked.

"John, you know you're both welcome to stay here," his mother admonished.

"I know, Mum," he said. "But the bed's a bit small and–"

"We'll manage," Sherlock said firmly.

"But–"

"It will be fine," his partner interjected, raising his eyebrows warningly. "I'll go tell Gerald to cancel the reservation and bring the bags up. There's no sense in staying somewhere else – we may as well go back into the city if we do that. What's the name of the hotel?"

He disappeared down the walk having been given the information, John's gaze following him briefly.

"A driver," his mother commented. "Very posh."

"It takes a bit of getting used to," John admitted.

"Not in a bad way, I imagine."

"No, not really," John replied with a chuckle, his smile fading almost immediately. "Mum, I know it's not really what you wanted–"

"Oh, hush," Carol said, squeezing his arm lightly, pressing a brief kiss against his cheek. "You've always worried so much about what I want and what I think, John. I want you to be happy and safe. Anything beyond that is just a lovely bonus. He seems like a very charming man – very handsome, too."

John relaxed into laughter again as Sherlock appeared, carrying their overnight bags. John took his as it was passed off to him, a bemused smile playing on his lips at the image of Sherlock doing this work himself.

"Here we are," his partner said pleasantly, giving John's mother another bright smile. "Should we get them put away? I'd love to see the room in which John grew up."

* * *

><p>The sounds here were different. In the middle of the night, the distant hum of traffic Sherlock had grown used to in the city was absent. Not in the way it was at his parents' home, where silence in the middle of the night was absolute. The quiet here would be interrupted every so often by the passage of a single vehicle on the road outside. There was no pattern, but the lack of one didn't disturb him. Sherlock had managed several hours of good sleep before waking curled up with John.<p>

The bed was not as small as John had made it seem, nor as small as Sherlock had imagined. He'd anticipated a single bed that could just fit one grown man, but somewhere in John's adolescence, the bed had been upgraded. It still didn't hold them very well – not unless they slept pressed together, with which Sherlock had no problems. There was a certain security that came from sleeping tangled with John that he hadn't known before. When he put it simply, John made him feel welcome and wanted, without any expectations.

John was sleeping in a pair of boxers, and Sherlock wished he weren't – although he was wearing pyjama pants as well, he suddenly wanted nothing between them. He could undress himself without waking John, but a quick analysis didn't reveal any way to achieve the same results with his partner, so he didn't bother.

In his sleep, John made a faint noise and snuggled closer to Sherlock, nose pressing into the younger man's clavicle. A faint puff of warm breath crossed Sherlock's skin as he flattened a palm against John's back, keeping him close. John settled again, and Sherlock relaxed slightly, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Light from the street lamps outside bled through the blinds – a far cry from the complete darkness in which Sherlock usually slept. It was just enough to see John by – not to make out his features entirely, but to see their definition. Sherlock could conjure John's face perfectly from memory; he didn't need to see well to know what was there.

He closed his eyes and let his hands work instead.

The pressure had to be just so – too light and it would tease John awake. That prospect was appealing but it could wait. Too deep and it would be distracting and wake John just as surely as a teasing touch would, although likely in a more serious mood. Nor would it give him the information he was after. He wanted to map John's skin against his palms, memorize all of it. Be able to recall the sensations as easily as he recalled his partner's features. Be able to feel it on his own skin whenever he thought of it – each change in texture, each rough area, each smooth patch, each ticklish spot that made muscles jump.

He didn't want to forget. Not for one waking moment, not for the space of a single breath.

* * *

><p>The silence was so familiar. Easy to breathe, weights lifted from his lungs, a heady rush of pure oxygen that made laughter bubble in his chest, escaping when no one was looking.<p>

Joy was incautious, relief a distraction. Jim took care not to let it dictate his perceptions, his movements. Changes had paid off. Decisions forced by the turn of events had been well-made, tempering the hounds sniffing at his heels, pushing them back to where they belonged, the lower levels, the streets, other avenues that didn't ultimately lead to him.

Some had been removed, Sebastian working in the shadows, little more than a shadow himself, all grace and fluid silence. Better to sever ties that might knot around him. Reassign those who couldn't be plucked from the game without comment or notice. Redirect the attention of those who might come sniffing far too close to his door for comfort. Spread whispers that wound away from him, down false paths with dead ends that would distract the hunters, take up their time, encircle them with lies and half-truths that would keep them busy while achieving nothing.

Relief. Pure, simple relief. Laughter came again, a soft tone in the darkness, echoing back at him, building on itself, reaffirming its reassurance. There had been a celebration of sorts, Sebastian had done everything perfectly, then had been sent away, leaving him in this silence that wasn't oppressive anymore. Back on the tracks he preferred, the smooth, silent ones that ran only with efficiency, moving through the darkness without sound, without a hint he was there.

A momentary distraction, a set back that was only part of the game. He could see that now. Could see it in the photographs of an arrest that had come to him via one of his pets at the Met, an arrest – no two. Sherlock's people, led away in handcuffs. Oh there would be no connection to _him_, the same way there was never any connection to Jim, but it was a blow and assets were seized and a carefully constructed network had been dismantled and now there were police all over the place, scuttling like little crabs, pulling down an intricate framework like it was an old building gone to ruin and Jim stood behind the barricades, laughing.

He'd done it again. It felt so good, like the drugs so many sought from him, but this was simpler and so much purer. No price for this – except the price Sherlock would pay for the loss of part of his network. The price of the game, all the little pawns that had to be sacrificed to keep things working and wouldn't this keep Sherlock distracted while Jim moved other pieces, kept the game going, manoeuvred to his advantage until the board was set as he wanted it again. He could feel the pieces falling into place, so responsive now after having nearly slipped from his grasp – but that was wrong, an illusion painted by responding to circumstances rather than controlling them, a good lesson, one that needed to be reinforced now and again, and the more he learned this time, the less he would have to do next time. Another deep breath, another liberating rush. Oh yes. Another step, two, three, too many to count, and he was back where he wanted to be, out of sight, out of reach. He felt giddy again, lightheaded. Fingers itching. Nerves singing. Demanding attention. Pleasure. Euphoria.

He reached for his phone. Had Sebastian come back.

* * *

><p>Sherlock saved the scars for last.<p>

When his palms and mind had memorized the map of John's body, he used fingertips to trace the damaged skin on his partner's back.

It was deceptively smooth, as though such a texture could deny the violence that had wrought it. When John stirred, Sherlock stilled until his partner had slid back into a deeper sleep and he could resume his exploration uninterrupted. John would feel self-conscious if he awoke now in a way that he wouldn't if Sherlock were touching him anywhere else.

He'd seen how John treated his scars – deliberately ignoring them, attempting to act no differently when he brushed them while dressing or bathing, but a faint flare of nostrils gave him away whenever Sherlock touched them. He wasn't used to them, not yet. One day they would be so common place as to go unnoticed, but that casual treatment was feigned, an effort to adjust that had not yet been successful.

Sherlock found them curious, not discomfiting. In the darkness he couldn't make out the difference in tone, but had seen them enough to know their colour, like a small patch of sunburn against the fading tan of John's skin.

He had no more than superficial scars himself, tiny lines accumulated simply by having been alive, remarked upon but unremarkable. There had never been a serious injury that had required stitching or surgery – an astonishing feat, he thought with the tug of a smile on his lips, given his propensity to get himself into trouble as a child.

In the private darkness, Sherlock permitted himself to feel sentimental about the scars. John had been shot on active duty. John had been invalided back to England. John had been unable to return to work as a surgeon due to the intermittent tremor in his left hand caused by the nerve damage. A faceless man behind a rifle had torn a hole in Captain John Watson's shoulder and set him on the path here.

Eleven years ago, Sherlock had bought up some Italian property meant for Jim Moriarty. Had forced the man in the shadows had been watching into the light. Had given a name and a face to the nameless, faceless whispers that Sherlock had heard in dark corners, spoken in hushed tones. Had started him on the path that led him here, in the darkness, listening to John's breathing.

Without thinking about it, Sherlock let his fingertips trail over the peak of John's shoulder, across the ridge where clavicle met scapula to trace the smaller scars where the bullet had first pierced the skin. It was not so difficult to imagine the sunlight, the noise, the chaos. Even here in the quiet stillness. He could picture it, hear it, smell it. Dust in the air. The sound of gunfire. A man's voice – Lieutenant Bill Murray – shouting John's name. The jostling sensation, the stabs of pain as John was lifted, slung over shoulders. The uneven pace of running with a load, the constant directives to hold on.

The blissful peace that must have come with the drugs and the anaesthetic – and the ignorance as to what awaited him at home.

John would tell him all of it if Sherlock asked. But it would never convey the truth of it. His account of being shot had emotion behind it, but without the experience, it meant little. Images and sensations conjured by a vivid imagination – and Sherlock had no doubt he was as close as possible to understanding without experiencing, but it was not the same.

Closing his eyes, fitting himself against John again to rest his chin lightly on his partner's shoulder, he wondered if it always felt the way John had described it.


	109. Chapter 109

"I didn't mean to startle you."

Carol Watson's face relaxed into a warm smile, and she patted Sherlock's shoulder as she passed the chair in which he was sitting, his laptop resting on his thighs.

"It's all right, dear. John did warn me that you were an early riser. I hadn't expected this early, though."

Sherlock gave her a pleasant smile and didn't bother explaining that he'd been up most of the night. The darkness had given way to dawn, the silence had turned into the sounds of a Sunday morning – some vehicles, some voices and footsteps as runners or dog walkers went by. The stillness held for the most part, a lazy beginning to what would be – for most people – a lazy day.

"Can I help with breakfast?" he asked, clicking his laptop shut, setting it aside.

"You cook too?" Carol asked, a pleased gleam in her eye. Sherlock made a non-committal noise, joining her in the kitchen. Having attempted it once, it turned out to be little more than chemistry, in which he'd always excelled in school.

"John will want pancakes," she continued, filling the kettle for tea. "He always does, ever since he came back from his first tour. Too much time with Americans, I think," Carol added, throwing a smile Sherlock's way. It was like John's in tone – warm, genuine – but not so much in appearance. John took after his father; Sherlock had seen the photographs in the living room and in the corridor, spanning enough time for him to see the resemblance between the man John was now and the man his father had been decades before.

Harry had been in those pictures as well, and it was she who took after her mother. In looks if not in temperament; it had been easy enough to see that whatever Carol Watson's vices may be, they didn't involve alcohol or gambling.

"Took me ages to get used to it," Carol said. "They seemed so heavy and sweet at first, but they've grown on me, I have to admit. Tea?"

"Please. White and one. If you've got a recipe, I can cook."

"Oh, hush, you're a guest."

"It would be my pleasure," Sherlock assured her with a warm smile, accepting a mug of steaming tea.

"Well, if you're sure."

"Absolutely. I'd be delighted at the opportunity to spoil you."

With a blush and a smile, Carol dug the recipe from a drawer, and set about helping him find the ingredients until Sherlock shooed her from the kitchen. This was far simpler than the first meal he'd cooked for John, and by the time the warm, heavy aroma was filling the house, John was up, rubbing his eyes with a bleary smile.

"Excellent timing," Sherlock said, stealing a quick kiss when John wandered into the kitchen in search of coffee.

"You cooked?" his partner asked, shaking away the last vestiges of sleep with surprise.

"You sound like your mother."

"Well, she did raise me. And since when do you make breakfast?"

"I made breakfast for you last weekend, if I recall correctly."

"Ah yes, the second time you've made beans on toast."

"Expanding my repertoire," Sherlock replied.

"Thinking of replacing your cook?" John asked, a twinkle in his eyes as he folded his arms over his chest. It was disappointing that he'd put on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, but Sherlock could admit privately that some respectability was called for here.

"Not a chance," Sherlock said. "Now make yourself useful and set the table."

* * *

><p>"Satisfied?" Sherlock asked as the car headed west back into London, chasing the last of the dwindling daylight.<p>

"You're the one who insisted we come," John commented with a smile. "But yeah. A bit different than how you grew up, I bet," he added.

"I doubt there's much in my childhood that anyone would consider typical," Sherlock replied with a slight smile.

"It wasn't dull for you?"

"Why would it have been?"

"I don't know," John replied with a shrug. "Typical house, typical mum, typical life…"

"There is nothing about you I find typical," Sherlock replied, raising his eyebrows, and John felt himself flush slightly in the car's dim interior.

"She liked you," he said, changing the subject slightly.

"Did she?" Sherlock murmured. John withheld a comment – of course Sherlock knew that.

"She doesn't let just anyone cook in her kitchen, you know. I can't tell you the number of times I've offered."

"You're her son," Sherlock pointed out. "She's inclined to fuss over you – particularly since you insisted on repeatedly putting your life at risk thousands of miles away."

"Well now I get to do that from the comfort of London," John said. Sherlock gave him a small, wry smile, but the light didn't quite reach his eyes. "Besides, she'd have been happy to fuss over you, too, if you'd let her. She won't pass up any opportunities from now on."

"Perhaps she won't have to," Sherlock murmured. It struck John as an odd thing to say, but he was distracted from asking what Sherlock had meant by the sound of his phone.

"Good news," Sherlock commented in response to John's grin.

"Yeah, Tricia just got her return flight details," John replied, tapping out a message quickly in response. "Jamie will be bouncing off the walls – I'll have to go home and celebrate with him."

"Of course," Sherlock murmured. A quick glance at his partner returned only a pleasant, supportive smile, nothing but understanding in his features, but there was something in his voice, some slight undertone that John wasn't even sure he'd really heard. And perhaps there was a hint of tightness where there shouldn't have been, maybe around his eyes, maybe along his shoulders. It might have been a trick of the light, but John didn't think so.

His phone chimed again with another text from Tricia.

_Chatting with J but wanted to let you know. See you soon! – T._

"On second thought," John said, tucking his phone back into his pocket, "I'll let them talk. Can I spend the night at yours?"

"You're always welcome, John, but you don't have to–"

"I know I don't have to. I want to."

Sherlock smiled again, and it seemed more genuine this time. He interlaced their fingers as he leaned across the small space separating them. There was no tension in the kiss, but John could feel it in his partner's fingers. Sherlock was a master at hiding his reactions, and the thought that something was slipping through sat uneasily with John. He hoped it was deliberate, but had a sense that it wasn't.

The trip into the city passed in silence, Sherlock gazing out the window, nothing apprehensive in his posture, in the set of his jaw, in his expression. John watched him carefully, stroking the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb, until the study brought Sherlock back to the present.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," John said with a smile. "Just appreciating the view."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but gave him another quick kiss, a hum of approval in his throat as he did so.

* * *

><p>John took their bags up the flat, refusing Gerald's offer to do so, and getting no assistance from Sherlock. It didn't surprise him – once in a weekend was probably enough for Sherlock, and it very likely hadn't occurred to him to help. He dropped them in the bedroom, turned to head into the kitchen for a beer, and found himself pressed against the wall suddenly, Sherlock crowding into his space, hands roaming up John's chest to tilt his face up for a hard kiss.<p>

The momentary shock was replaced by sudden desire when Sherlock's tongue swept into his mouth, catching a sound that was half a protest and half a groan. Hands were around his waist suddenly, Sherlock's weight pinning them to the wall, taking the strain from John's suddenly unsteady legs.

The wave of relief warred with the desire as Sherlock's nimble fingers dispensed of his belt buckle and tugged the hem of his t-shirt from his jeans. The tension hadn't left his partner but it had changed, and now John understood _why_.

He kissed back, hard, working the buttons on Sherlock's suit jacket and shirt free, running his hands over smooth, warm skin as he tried to push the clothing from Sherlock's shoulders, hampered by the hands tugging at his own shirt. A sudden darkness enveloped him as his jumper and shirt were pulled up; John struggled from them, tossing them carelessly to the floor.

"Do your own," he ordered, unzipping his jeans, kicking his shoes off and following them with the rest of his clothes. Sherlock didn't argue, undressing himself with quick efficiency, letting his clothing lie where it had dropped, pushing John back toward the bed.

He landed with a soft thump, braced himself as Sherlock crawled on top of him, and rolled them over, pinning his partner between himself and the duvet. Sherlock moaned softly; John caught it with a kiss, a faint shudder running down his spine as long legs hooked around his waist. His hands were caught, guided all along Sherlock's body until his partner was apparently satisfied – or couldn't wait any longer to fumble on the nightstand for the lube. It was pressed into John's hand then discarded in favour of his fingers being sucked into Sherlock's mouth.

John buried his face against Sherlock's neck, nipping and sucking, feeling the moans around his fingers, the rush of heat against Sherlock's skin. He slid his fingers free, ignoring a grunt of protest as he turned Sherlock's head back toward his and kissed him hard. Fingertips dug into his cheeks, the bite of fingernails making his skin burn, and when John pulled away for air, Sherlock wound his fingers into the doctor's hair.

"Sherlock–"

A frustrated sound, almost a whine. Sherlock shook his head, eyes bright, face flushed.

"Come on, John," he snapped, finding the lube again, pressing it against John's shoulder as if the moment without contact had been too much. John was caught in another hard kiss, teeth digging into his lower lip.

"You all right?" he managed when he could pull away, catching the flash of irritation on his partner's face.

"I would be, if you'd shut up."

"Sherlock–" he tried again.

"Oh for god's sake you talk too much," Sherlock growled, the pitch of his voice making John's breath catch. He reached up quickly, snagging the lube from Sherlock's grasp.

"If that's how you want it, fine," he said, popping the cap, coating his fingers, dispensing with finesse as he pushed one in, dropping his head at the same time to swallow Sherlock who arched off the bed with a startled cry. A hand was back in his hair, trying to hold him in place. John pulled away when he reached three fingers, raising his head to watch as Sherlock twisted his side-to-side, his breath coming in short pants as John scissored and stroked.

"Ready?" he asked, pushing one of Sherlock's legs up toward his chest, giving his partner no time to reply before he thrust in. Sherlock clenched around him, more surprise than pain; John growled a warning for him to relax.

"Come _on_, John," Sherlock muttered, tugging at his hair again.

"Jesus you're pushy," John said, feeling a huff of air against his lips before he was pulled into another kiss. He leaned into Sherlock's thigh, swallowing the quiet gasp and moan, setting a hard pace. Sherlock's hands slid down his back, gripping his ass, pushing them closer together. John moaned into his partner's hair, trying to retain some control, failing when Sherlock planted his other leg and returned his thrusts. A hand was worked between them, Sherlock's faint whimpers whispering past his ear. Sherlock was getting tighter, beginning to tremble, faint shudders that passed down the leg pressed against John's chest. John kept going, screwing his eyes shut, biting his lower lip against the pressure and the heat.

"Don't you dare–" Sherlock gasped when John tried to still, constricted by the muscles around him. He braced himself and kept going until it was too much and Sherlock was gasping as John buried a groan in his partner's hair.

Sherlock relaxed suddenly, turning his head just enough to nuzzle the side of John's face. When he felt like he could move, John raised his head, meeting his partner in another kiss, this one languid, warmer.

"I'll just get a towel, shall I?" he asked, earning a hum of approval in response, and a faint sigh and the shuffle of limbs when he pulled away. He cleaned himself off quickly in the bathroom, re-emerging with a damp flannel and a towel, only to find Sherlock already asleep.

"Sherlock," he whispered, climbing back onto the bed. Grey eyes fluttered open, meeting his before closing again. John smiled slightly, pressing a warm kiss against the fading flush on Sherlock's brow. "Have it your way then," he murmured. Sherlock certainly needed the sleep – John doubted he'd got more than three hours a night the last several nights.

He cleaned his partner then managed to get him under the covers, smiling again when Sherlock curled up, murmuring something incoherent, face half-buried in the pillows. John switched off the light and crawled in next to him; Sherlock unfurled himself just long enough for John to get comfortable before curling up again, enveloping John in a cocoon of warm limbs, lips, and breath.


	110. Chapter 110

**A/N:** Warning for the sex at the end of this chapter. It may not be nice but it _is_ consensual.

* * *

><p>"You're back already, David? That was never twenty– oh!"<p>

Molly stopped abruptly, the familiar face she was expecting to see resolving itself into starker, sharper lines, paler colouring, a keener gaze. The eyes that met hers cut right through her, making her fidget and wind her fingers together. The smile she was greeted with was bland, pleasant – but she could make out the knife's edge of danger just beneath it.

"Hullo, um, Mister Holmes," she managed, desperately wanting to step back, deliberately forcing herself not to.

"Good evening, Ms. Hooper," he replied. His tone was entirely amiable, as though he were greeting an old acquaintance he was fond of – and somehow, that made Molly feel worse.

"How did– how did you get in here?" she asked, wincing at the stammer in her voice.

"We're treating you well, I see," he commented, waving his hand to dismiss her question like a mildly irritating insect. "Mister Moriarty's people aren't bothering you."

It was definitely not a question, but Molly found herself nodding anyway.

"Security suits you. You've put on two and a half pounds since I last saw you." Molly opened her mouth to interject, but Holmes kept talking without really bothering to notice her reaction. "New makeup and new shoes as well. I'm glad our arrangement is working better than your previous one."

"Yes," Molly said. "Um, thank you."

"Of course, it's not one-sided, and I find myself in need of your services."

Molly cast a quick glance over her shoulder, half expecting someone else – that woman who had come a few weeks ago, or perhaps another body.

"Not immediately," Holmes said, and she snapped her attention back to him.

"With what– I mean, what will I have to do?"

"On the twenty-first of this month, there will be a doctor here named Mike Stamford. He will be posing as a morgue technician; you will admit him and treat him as a colleague."

"But– the others won't recognize–"

"Yes, leave that to me," Holmes said. "He will need a sterile operating theatre, which you can provide. I will also need you to help with the storage of clean clothing and the incineration of soiled clothing. And the disposal of bodies."

"H-how many bodies?" Molly managed.

He gave her a brittle, enigmatic smile that didn't come close to reaching his eyes.

"We'll just have to see, won't we?"

* * *

><p>"Why there?" Gabriel asked without looking up from the blueprints spread across his desk. "Aside from Molly Hooper, I mean."<p>

"It's deceptively isolated," Sherlock replied. "Only two CCTV cameras have an unobstructed view, and few of the surrounding buildings offer any view at all, let alone a clear one."

"Will you have enough coverage?" Gabriel asked, glancing at Cheryl, who was scrutinizing the blueprints with narrowed eyes. She gave a slow nod, then a firmer one, satisfied with what she saw.

"I've called in some favours," she replied. "I'll have the potential locations scouted by tomorrow."

"Good," Sherlock murmured. "You will let me know if there's anything you need."

"A copy of this," Cheryl replied. "I'll take Simone with me. Two cops poking around are less suspicious than one."

"I want photographs," Sherlock said.

"Of course."

"I'll have the blueprints to you within the hour."

Cheryl nodded her thanks and left them, the door clicking shut in the brief silence that settled over the office. Sherlock kept it as Gabriel studied the map, fingers of his right hand skimming the paper lightly.

"Jim will hate it, you know," he commented, green eyes glinting as he looked up.

"I know," Sherlock replied. "Where are we with the bank?"

"Working on it," Gabriel said, shaking his head in response to Sherlock's slightly narrowed eyes. "It'll be done by next week."

"Show me what you've got so far."

* * *

><p>"David Holmes."<p>

Sherlock's voice was flat, deceptively calm. Gabriel braced himself for a storm Sherlock Holmes-style, and could see the effort it was costing his boss to keep it contained. Grey eyes glinted bright and sharp. Nostrils flared and the muscles around his jaw jumped as he swallowed on something.

"David _Ian_ Holmes," Sherlock stressed.

"Changed to that name on the third of April, 2004. Prior to that, it was registered to a Sibyl Barnes Holmes."

Sherlock's right hand flattened against the desk, tendons jutting out against his skin.

"Are we sure it's _not_ my mother's?" he asked. To anyone else, his voice would have sounded almost normal – a bit stiff perhaps, but nothing serious. To Gabriel, the tone spoke volumes – and warnings – about the rage burning beneath the surface.

He was glad he'd broached the subject now, when Sherlock still had a couple of weeks to calm down.

"Not unless your mother was changing the account information on the day David was born," Gabriel replied. "I checked with her just to be sure and no, it's not hers."

"Nor Mycroft, nor Angela's in the case," Sherlock said. "My brother wouldn't be so stupid as to put it in a family name." There was a pause, a tightening of muscles along his neck and shoulders, a deliberate release of tension. "Two boxes then. We'll just have to see which one this key opens, won't we?"

* * *

><p>John nudged his nearly empty beer bottle aside with one toe, casting a quick glance at his partner as he did so.<p>

Sherlock was still working. Ostensibly, he was watching the telly, gaze directed forward, reacting in all the right places, but John was learning the signs. Between the small movements – calculated, John was certain, to give the appearance of paying attention – Sherlock was too still. No flicker of the eyes, no slight shifts to find a more comfortable position.

And he was tapping the fingers on his left hand against his thumb – not tapping exactly. Touching lightly, briefly, in no particular order.

At least, no order that was evident to someone who didn't play the violin. It had been a long time since John had held a clarinet, but he could still recall the way his fingers had learned to find keys without conscious thought.

Sherlock was playing in his head. A pale substitute for the real thing, probably, but John was willing to bet Sherlock could conjure the weight and feel of the instrument from memory.

Whatever he was doing, the Doctor wasn't holding his attention.

"Do you remember what you thought the moment you were hit?" Sherlock asked abruptly, sharp gaze finding John's like a missile honing system.

"What?" John asked, taken aback and somewhat abashed at having been caught out staring.

"When you were shot," Sherlock clarified. "What went through your mind?"

"You've already asked about that," John said.

"No, I asked what it felt like. Now I'm asking what you thought."

"Why?" John asked in return, picking up his beer and swigging the last of it back to cover his sudden unease at the abrupt probing.

"I want to know," Sherlock replied, his tone reasonable, as though it was an utterly normal conversation to be having. John sighed inwardly; he should have learned by now that with Sherlock, anything was fair game. "Isn't that how one learns about other people?"

"Most people, yeah," John replied. Sherlock arched an eyebrow but made no comment. John sighed again, audibly this time. "What if I told you I don't remember?"

"You'd be lying," Sherlock said. "Meeting my eyes while saying that is a mistake; your pupils–"

"Got it," John said, letting a small smile soften his interruption. "Okay. Well, since you're so interested, what I remember thinking was 'please, God, let me live'."

The surprise seemed genuine, erasing the intense focus and the curiosity for a moment.

"You're not religious."

"No," John said, shrugging his good shoulder lightly; it was probably his imagination, but the conversation was causing a low, warning ache beneath his scars. "But moments like those… you'll cling to anything."

Displeasure chased across Sherlock's features, darkening and narrowing his eyes somewhat, and John expected an immediate retort, not the stretch of silence that met him instead.

"Would you," Sherlock said.

"Well," John swallowed the urge to clear his throat uncomfortably. "Most people would, I think."

"I'm not most people," Sherlock muttered – half to himself, John thought.

"No," John agreed, meeting Sherlock's gaze steady when it flickered up to meet his again. "You're certainly not. What's got you thinking about this, though? And I ask that fully knowing that you're going to tell me I couldn't possibly fathom your thought processes."

"If you feel the need to point it out, then it saves me the trouble," Sherlock sniffed. "I wanted to know. I thought of it at your mum's."

John nodded, twisting his beer bottle back and forth between his fingers, wishing he had another but unwilling to get up and break the conversation. He had a strong feeling that once the thread was dropped, Sherlock wasn't going to pick it up again.

"Have you asked Gabriel about it?"

"Why should I have?"

"You're asking me," John pointed out.

"You're my partner," Sherlock replied in his 'obvious' voice. John very carefully did not roll his eyes.

"And he's one of your best friends. It's not like this is limited to people you're dating – and since when would you worry about appearances anyway?"

"Appearances are always important."

"Propriety, then," John sighed.

"He wasn't in a warzone in a foreign country."

"Sherlock, all of London is a warzone where you're concerned – but it doesn't matter. He was still shot." John shrugged again. "If you're so interested, you should ask. What I thought and felt are probably different than what he did."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded, gaze honing in again, the full force of his intellect turned to John, who felt it like a sudden weight.

"Um– well, like you said, he wasn't in a warzone in another country. He was somewhere familiar to him, trying to protect someone he loves. He may remember more than I do, or less, or different things. It's different for everyone."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, a sharp note in his voice that John couldn't identify.

"Yeah, I think so. Experiences always are."

His partner settled against the sofa cushions again, tugging his bottom lip absently between thumb and forefinger.

"This is a morbid topic," John said.

"Morbid is a matter of taste," Sherlock rejoined, but the intensity had faded, thoughtfulness taking its place.

"Yep," John agreed. "And that's my taste. Please do _not_ run out and get yourself shot just so you know what it feels like. There's something to be said about living vicariously through others in some cases – if you really feel you need to know."

"I don't plan on it," Sherlock replied.

"Good," John sighed.

"Of course, no one ever really does."

"Yeah, that doesn't make me feel better. Especially coming from you."

With a sigh that John was sure was feigned, Sherlock glanced back at him.

"Fine. I shall do my best not to."

"Thanks," John said, trying to ignore the niggling unease that came with Sherlock's promise.

"We're curiously anthropocentric, aren't we?"

"What?" John asked, caught off guard by the abrupt non sequitur.

"Of all the planets that exist in our galaxy, through all the billions of years the universe has existed, they somehow end up here and close to now."

Realization came when Sherlock's hand tilted toward the screen where a blue police box stood out starkly against an open northern meadow.

Pushing himself to his feet with a sigh, John reached for his empty beer bottle. Now was definitely the time for seconds.

"I think it's a matter of money," he said. "I hear it's bloody expensive to film on Mars."

* * *

><p>Still breathing hard, lungs pumping like bellows, heart pounding like a drum beat too hard, like it was seeking escape that couldn't be found because hands remained secured to the headboard with the silvery glint of metallic links and even words couldn't find freedom past the stretch of fabric cutting into lips, allowing for incoherent sounds and nothing more.<p>

Fresh bruises stretched across skin in neat, linear bands that crossed and mirrored one another, the skin's memories of the leather belt assaulting blood vessels, a reminder of fragility. Hands were unmarked, so was the face; the bruises were Jim's and not for the eyes of others, only his as they roamed Sebastian's body (breathing starting to slow, along with the heart rate). Pushing an index finger into the one that ran across ribs into dense abdominal muscle, trailing it the length, ignoring the groan, the shifting of trying to get away without wanting to get away.

Sebastian hadn't liked it at first, but the military had done its job and he took orders when Jim gave them wherever Jim gave them and didn't question. Pretended to himself that he still didn't like it much but the sounds he made – fading echoes into imprints in the wall that Jim could sometimes hear at night when he bothered to sleep and dream – proved otherwise. There were some things the body demanded, and he'd always thought he'd find this one irritating but it wasn't, although it required patience, discipline, couldn't always be given into. A prize worth waiting for.

But not _the_ prize he was waiting for.

A slow smile on his lips, television screen a stark, angry light in the dim yellow electricity of the room. Sebastian shifting again, stopping when Jim sprawled against him – not as good as cushions but it made a point – not bothering with hisses and the voiceless protests of tensing muscles. He'd leave Sebastian where he was, come back to him later, finger and thumb reaching down to pinch the back of a thigh hard – a warning and a promise. Jim flicked through the channels then settled on the Doctor, whom Sebastian hated.


	111. Chapter 111

Spring had well and truly arrived.

Sherlock could feel it despite the early morning chill in the air – the promise of warmth, the hint of blooms on the breeze, the undercurrent of energy. It seemed the city was feeling it as much as he was; even so early on a Sunday, there was a bustle far below him that had been dampened and quieted by the winter months. It was re-emerging slowly as the sun began to appear more regularly, displacing the clouds.

There was something else that stirred in him, too, if he were honest with himself. Something the nicotine couldn't quell as he exhaled a long, slow breath, watching the smoke hang for a tenuous moment before vanishing. He could feel it buzzing along his nerves, making his fingers tingle, heightening his senses so that everything seemed more present, more _real._

Anticipation.

He kept it under control, kept it hidden from John whose presence was the best damper for it, a reminder of what was really at stake behind all the manoeuvring and scheming and orchestrating. The very human element – not of the plan, which was all pieces being slid deliberately into place, but of the results.

Without John, it would have been so much simpler.

This was what he lived for. The careful set up, the consideration of all the possible events, the knowledge that life was unpredictable and that no matter what his best laid plans were, he'd have to think on his feet. The adrenaline of being in the situation, the first rush he'd felt when he'd been fourteen and had walked away with a painting valued at thirty thousand pounds.

To use his mind against those who had no idea they were being opposed, to pass unnoticed, his actions uncovered only after any last trace of him had vanished.

The game.

It wasn't just Jim who yearned for that release from boredom – but Sherlock chose his players carefully. Had plucked those who would play without losing themselves to the game, had trained them and moulded them to be what he wanted, and he knew he wasn't the only one who felt this _anticipation_. He saw it in Gabriel's eyes, the same glint he'd seen almost nine years ago. He saw it along the edges of Irene's lips, in the smile that wasn't quite there. He saw it in Cheryl's movements, always economical and controlled, but with a passion that was just buried beneath the surface. He saw it in Charles' face, in the wryness of his expression.

But underneath all of that, uncertainty. He could feel it, too, a tiny knot at the base of his stomach, kept under control but never vanishing. He'd caught glimpses of it in Gabriel and Cheryl as well. If Irene felt it, she didn't let on. He doubted it had even occurred to Charles to be concerned.

There was more at stake here, a bigger goal than they'd ever gone after, more threads, more possibilities something could go wrong. They were walking less in the shadows now, too often having come to the attention of the police.

There was more to lose.

He'd never had anything to lose before. Oh, money and freedom – but one could be replaced and the other could be bought. Mycroft wouldn't have tolerated his baby brother losing either for very long. The wheels of government didn't move slowly when Mycroft caught the whiff of scandal that might be turned back on him.

There was a future spreading out before him, but – for the first time – it was shrouded, without a hint of what it might contain.

* * *

><p>Opening the balcony door required putting one of the coffee mugs down, and John paused for a moment longer, in part because he was unwilling to disturb Sherlock, in part just to watch him so deep in thought.<p>

He was smoking, cigarette burning between long fingers. The movements didn't seem distracted or automatic, as if Sherlock could be entirely aware of where he was and a million miles away at the same time. When John slid the balcony door open, there was no surprise in Sherlock's movements as he turned to greet the doctor with a smile.

"Good morning," John said, passing over a cup of coffee.

"Indeed it is. Thank you." The cigarette was tipped into an ashtray in favour of the steaming drink. John settled beside his partner on the small sofa, letting his gaze sweep over the city below. The spring air was chilly, but invigoratingly so, and the warm mug in his hand and the pleasant burn of hot coffee as he swallowed was a comfortable contrast.

It was a week full of promise, and he felt so content that he couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed by the sentimental thought.

"Tricia will be home in a couple of days," he commented.

"Three," Sherlock corrected and John's lips twitched.

"Would you mind if I spent some time with her?"

Genuine surprised flashed through Sherlock's eyes, relaxing his features briefly.

"Why would I mind?"

John shrugged.

"Of course I don't mind," Sherlock replied. "I did go to some trouble to arrange her early return, if you recall. Besides, as it so happens, I'll be busy then, so the timing works out well."

"Anything interesting?" John asked, trying to keep his tone light, knowing he'd failed.

"Not particularly," Sherlock said. "You would be amazed at how tedious international real estate can actually be."

"Yeah right," John muttered under his breath.

"We do occasionally delve into the legal side of the business, you know. I even have to take charge of it myself sometimes. It's a difficult deal, but well worth the trouble."

"All right then," John said with a chuckle and a slight shake of his head. "Go sell someone an exotic property in South America or whatever it is you're doing."

"We have a few days left," Sherlock replied, "before the more time-consuming work begins."

"Then I think we should do our best to enjoy them," John said firmly.

The smile Sherlock gave him was warm, lighting his grey eyes, relaxing something in John he hadn't even known was tense.

"Between my meetings and your patients, I think we can find the time," Sherlock agreed.

* * *

><p>Gleaming marble floors and vaulted ceilings brought a hush to the Monday morning bustle as the public face of the bank returned from the weekend. Crossing the carpet that was only just beginning to make its wear known beneath the soles of his shoes, Sherlock could feel cameras trained on him as he passed through their scope. Behind them were men and women employed to gaze, disembodied, at the comings and goings of the bank's patrons and employees all day.<p>

And behind those bored officers in their cheap chairs and stiff uniforms was Gabriel, an invisible observer of the invisible observers. Sherlock couldn't see him, but the reassuring weight of a familiar gaze brought a certain security. No one would see him who wasn't meant to.

The manager approached him – new suit chosen for this auspicious occasion, fingernails recently manicured, hair styled with care, eyes gleaming with a mix of pleasure and greed – and shook his hand. Firm grip, short shake, direct gaze. A man who prided himself on knowing other men and serving the money first.

"Mister Brook. How delightful to finally meet you."

* * *

><p>The box was laid almost reverently on the table, two sets of keys inserted and turned. Five small, black velvet bags revealed when Sherlock lifted the lid carefully, recording instantly what he could see, the sizes and densities and outlines hinted beneath the fine fabric.<p>

"Will that be all?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock replied, fingers closing around the right bag – he'd known from the shape, confirmed it with the weight. "I'll need the second box."

He'd passed some sort of test – it was obvious in the manager's expression, although he made a valiant effort not to show it. Almost anyone else – anyone but Sherlock, or those trained by him – may have missed it. But he'd been waiting for it, knew it would come.

Hidden amongst the diamonds was the third key, the one whose existence Charles had worked out for him, the one which belonged to the box registered now to David Ian Holmes. A flash of angered immediately smothered. His nephew was safe – a few careful words to Angela had seen to that.

"If you'd be so kind," Sherlock murmured. The haste and deference pleased him; he kept it to himself, expression and posture neutral, as though he had all the time in the world and nothing interesting to fill it.

He could feel Gabriel watching again as both locks were thrown, almost too loud in the silence of the fortified room.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "Now you may go."

He waited until the door had shut, counted slowly to ten in his head, and lifted the lid.

The box was empty.

But his eyes were liars, feeding him incorrect information. He shut them, letting fingertips search along the edges until he felt the give. Worked the false bottom free and lifted it aside. In the tiny, hidden space, precisely where he expected it to be, a black, non-descript memory stick.

Sherlock slipped it free and turned toward the camera behind him, holding it up. In an office building above the bustling heart of the city, Gabriel was grinning.

* * *

><p>"Are you absolutely certain about this?"<p>

"Worried about stealing the spot light from me, Mycroft? I can hardly imagine you'll be the one to make the announcement when you have so many people far better qualified to be the public face of the government."

"I'm not talking about the painting, Sherlock. This is a dangerous game."

"When is it not?"

A warning look was shot at him from across the desk – no gloating or slyness in his brother's expression, not now.

"There is a great deal more I could do."

"I thought the British government didn't negotiate with terrorists."

"I'm not proposing to negotiate," Mycroft replied. "There are specialized teams I could call in to take care of this."

"Which would all be official and above-board."

"I realize that from your point of view, this is considered a drawback. Official hardly equals public, you know. The Official Secrets Act–"

"Is in effect now," Sherlock interjected. "Public or not, it will be documented – no, don't deny it. To some level of detail, it will be. Oh, there would be people who would understand, of course. And then there are those who would see any action of this type on the part of a government to be a threat."

"The purpose of the government is to protect the welfare of the British people," Mycroft replied. "Jim Moriarty does not qualify."

"Details," Sherlock said, "which are so easily overlooked by anyone backing a cause. You have your part, Mycroft. I've given you the information – and won't it be a shining example of how well the government works to protect our welfare?"

"If you don't need anything more, then why are you here?" his brother sighed.

"I didn't say I don't need anything." Irritation on his brother's features which Mycroft didn't bother to smooth away – not with Sherlock as his only audience.

He withdrew twin envelopes from his briefcase, passed them across the desk. One for his mother, one for John. Written explanations that would hardly suffice, but he knew enough to understand they were better than nothing.

"Deliver these," he said. "Should the need arise."


	112. Chapter 112

"Are you ready?"

She'd been ready for weeks, mentally packing her duffle in her spare time, trying to picture the layout of Jamie's flat – he refused to send pictures, insisting it be a surprise, which was a bit worrisome – imagining what it would feel like to never again wear the light tags around her neck or end a day covered in blood.

Tricia had lain awake all night, listening to her bunkmate and bodyguard sleeping, straining her ears for the all too familiar sounds of artillery or helicopters, waiting to spend her last hours in the operating room, pulling one more person from death before she stepped off Afghani soil once and for all.

It hadn't come; the night was as calm as nights here ever got, and she'd passed the time listening for nothing until the sounds had begun to change, signalling the camp waking up. When the light had brightened enough to see by, Tricia had given up on any hopes of sleep altogether, showered, and packed the last of her belongings.

The duffle on her bed seemed small, her whole life contained in its canvas walls. It had never been so stark before, so obvious how little she really had. With her father in a home and her mother and brother long gone, she rented out the house in which she'd grown up and spent her time between tours in temporary flats that meant nothing to her.

Going back to London had never before truly seemed like going _home_. A brief layover before the job started up again, a chance to catch up with old friends and remind herself of a place where no one was constantly braced for the other shoe to drop.

This time it was for good, to a life she'd been unconsciously avoiding all these years, but which suddenly seemed so appealing.

"Yeah," she replied, slinging her duffle over her shoulder and following Sarah out the door.

* * *

><p>"Are you ready?"<p>

Palms pressed together, fingertips resting against lips, and Sherlock was silent long enough that Gabriel wondered if he was being ignored, or if Sherlock genuinely hadn't heard.

_Too late_, he thought, and wondered if it was. All the plans had been laid out, were ready to be set in motion, waiting only for Sherlock's orders. The silence drew out, the first barrier between them Gabriel thought he couldn't breach, then Sherlock nodded. A slow, smooth motion, without undue emphasis.

"Send it."

* * *

><p>"Are we ready?"<p>

But who was ever ready for this? Last minute preparations, a busy aide with a make up brush hastily applying final touches, someone else smoothing sleeves and cuffs, military police checking their positions, scanning the crowd, moving slightly closer to their charge at a subtle, gestured command.

_She is_, Mycroft thought. A touch of pride – not for the woman at the midst of the bustle but for his choice. Of course he'd made the right one, an MI5 agent who had been on her way up anyway, who had accepted the case not with glee at the recognition it would bring but with the sombre understanding of what such a duty entailed.

"Yes." The answer was firm, no waver in her voice, no doubt as to her actions. The arrest of a prominent MP had been done quietly but rumours – carefully leaked to the appropriate media outlets with just the right amount of detail – had drawn a crowd. He could hear the buzz from the press room already, speculation and stories and lies all circulating like air.

He followed, part of the crowd, another face in the sea of necessary government officials – obvious only to those who knew to look for him, who would understand what his presence meant about the man behind all of this.

* * *

><p>"What's this?" Tricia demanded.<p>

"Private plane. Courtesy of some friends back home," Sarah replied with a slight smile. A nod toward the stairs accompanied a slight adjustment of her duffle bag. "Shall we?"

"What–"

"Just you, me, two pilots and an attendant who have been very, very carefully screened. On a day like today, we don't want to take chances. You might as well not argue, because you haven't got a choice in the matter."

* * *

><p>"<em>How did this happen?"<em>

Hollow, like voices bouncing off canyon walls that were nothing more than fading echoes. Shattered, like glass in glinting, slivery pieces around a broken window. Burning, like the cold of ice pressed too hard against skin.

_Fire_ – he could feel it in his mind, denial and rage all wrapped up in a little ball that burst outward because it couldn't be possible, it _wasn't_ possible, these were lies, empty lies, useless threads of information that meant nothing but the reality was staring him in the face on paper, on the screen, the images seared into his brain, tightening like a cold vice on his lungs, around his heart, crumbling dust in the wind where solid walls had once stood. Walls he'd worked years to build, laying foundations that had never swayed in the worst of the storms only they'd been eaten away from the inside, hollowed out until they supported nothing, until it had to fall away and leave him here and–

Had to be wrong, had to be false. There couldn't be nothing, there'd always been _something_, accounts that were untraceable because _he_ was, debts that had to be paid, favours that had to be owed and it was only a matter of finding which strands in the web could be tugged without breaking, whom to reel in and when and where.

It could be managed.

If there was money.

Which there wasn't.

Fury bounced back at him, hitting him from all sides, pushing in on him even though it was his; he shot it back outward, scattering papers and pens and electronics.

They would pay.

Oh how they would pay.

One by one, those who had deceived him, robbed him, filtered away the carefully built caches until they were drained dry, until they sat on his desk as scraps of paper that had more value than the actual accounts themselves through which whistled the sound through a vacuum – no sound at all.

Nothing.

There couldn't be nothing, that was false, there was always _something_ hidden somewhere, some value, some little treasure tucked away for a rainy day to fall back on and _yes_, there was, there _was_, he reminded himself. There _was_ something, the bits he'd left in London – a fraction of a fraction of what he owned – what he _should have _owned – what he _had _owned but still there and it was a start and he'd checked – _oh yes he'd checked_ – and the names had held fast, had been shielded from the eyes that had found him, from those who were following him–

It was impossible, he'd seen to it, so carefully, oh so many _years_ of delicate, intricate work, but someone _– someone_ – had slipped through the cracks of the tightest fortresses like a ghost, like the mist, had gone back the same routes or different ones taking the money with them–

Sebastian.

No, inconceivable – loyalty had its prices and that was one of them, the inability to conceive of such a thing or – if it were imagined – to carry it out and if one was riding upon a tiger, better not to jump off and be available as lunch.

He was a whisper and so was someone else. Nothing led back to him, but someone had found a way, someone he couldn't see, whom he'd never seen, who had walked behind him unnoticed and it made sense now, the FBI, Interpol, a murder in Dublin, another in Paris, a fire in Hong Kong. He was being hounded – and he wasn't alone. Someone was on his tail and those around him, the others that moved through the darkness – _Sherlock_ – he could taste the name on his tongue, mouthed it, savoured it – he too was being followed and it had been worth paying attention although he hadn't read the signs, thought it was chance or sloppiness – _no, not that, not really, not someone so sleek, so elegant _– but the shadows were so good at hiding, not just them but those watching them and all it took not to see someone in the darkness was to close his eyes–

_There_.

Right in front of him, another man in another suit on the telly as the government brought down one of its own, one of _his_ own, his best contact there, such careful grooming and he thought it had been bad with the lawyer – _what was his name? Henry Walsh?_ – but William McKinney was so much worse and the woman at the podium behind the bouquet of microphones was composed – _sleek and elegant_ – so assured in her duty, for Queen and country but behind her–

_Sherlock_.

Another man in another suit – but it wasn't that simple when it came to Mycroft Holmes standing in the background, eyes could skip right over him in the sea of faces, in the spotlight taken by the MI5 agent and McKinney who had gone into the night in handcuffs but there nonetheless, pulling attention away from the obvious – obvious for those who knew to look for it.

An MP arrested and a painting recovered – _that blasted painting_ and he could _remember_ the game and how it had felt in his lungs, like a rush of pure oxygen, like something purer, the joy and triumph and now this–

Because Sherlock had _danced_ for him oh how he had danced to the tune Jim had set, twitching on the strings Jim had controlled through the voices of others and one voiceless man but there had been another tune beneath that, behind that, one he hadn't heard because it had no sound, like a ghost, like a mist–

And Mycroft Holmes was where Sherlock Holmes wasn't, in the spotlight or just behind it, close enough to catch its rays, to bask in the glory that was no glory at all according to the MI5 agent with her pressed suit and coiffed hair and unflappable composure in the face of such betrayal–

_Betrayal_ because it was meant to be a _game_ and Sherlock had changed the rules without saying, without hinting, and there had been a song Jim hadn't heard behind his own, while Sherlock danced, his people had been dancing a different tune for him, using the cracks, using the distraction and–

The ghost. The mist.

A man in the shadows_ but Jim knew him_ and the shadows wrapped around had been Sherlock had been so much deeper, winding like a darkness until he could pass unseen past cameras and security and those who should have known _better_, until it had been impossible for Jim to see, until all that was left was sheets of paper with blankness on them.

_No_.

It wasn't all.

One thing could never be stolen, just as it could never be saved. One thing tricked them both, stole away, could never be taken back.

_Time_.

He had time.

Two days, two days until the next part of _his_ game and he would check, oh yes he would, and he would insinuate himself into places that no one _could_ get into and he would throw it wide open. Plans could change – plans _would_ change. Money had been paid out already, sums agreed upon long ago, and time was ticking toward it.

Toward the Tower.

The name on New Scotland Yard had cast the spotlight skittering over Sherlock. This time, he would find himself in the centre of its glare, caged by the darkness around him, with nowhere to run.

* * *

><p>"Are you watching this?"<p>

"I am indeed." It was easy enough to slip a stunned note into his voice, muted and half hidden, for John's benefit. Less easy to ignore the niggling guilt that came from the lie.

"That's your brother in the background." And in the background behind John, Sherlock could hear the television across the line, the faint words from his screen matching those of the polished and confident woman who was speaking on his.

"It is," he agreed. "It's a bit of a shock."

"A shock?" John demanded. "You didn't know?"

"I had no idea." There was the real lie.

"You must've known about the painting."

"I had some information that I gave to Mycroft, but nothing on this scale. Certainly I had no idea that this MP was involved."

"_You_ gave information to Mycroft?"

"He's going owe me quite a large favour, it seems. Aren't you meant to be on the way to the airport?"

"Just waiting on Jamie. You didn't have to send Gerald, you know."

"I don't need him right now, and it's certainly more restful than the train or a cab, particularly after such a long trip."

"Well, thank you all the same." There was a pause and a murmur that indicated John had pulled the phone away from his ear and was speaking to someone else. "Right, Jamie's ready, so I'd best be going. I'll see you in a few days, but you won't get away with no texts."

"I expect not," Sherlock replied, not having to fake the warmth that underlay his words.

"I'll make sure to think about you stuck in your office slaving over some fiddly deal," John joked.

"Be sure you do," Sherlock murmured. "I hope Doctor Remsen enjoys her return home – and that you do as well. I'll see you in a few days. Good bye, John. I love you."

* * *

><p><em>Why'd you hang up? Did you think I wasn't going to say it back? Bloody lunatic, of course I love you too. -JW<em>


	113. Chapter 113

"I look ridiculous."

"You look like a tourist."

Gabriel shot Sherlock a look in the mirror, fiddling with the _I love London_ ball cap on his head. It really was ghastly, the word "love" replaced by a heart that was filled in with the Union Flag. He hoped the stupid thing wouldn't drive him mad – he'd never liked wearing hats.

"Same thing, really," he muttered. If he'd taken off the hat, he might have passed for just another person on the street, but he felt conspicuous wearing jeans and a t-shirt in a way he never had before. If anything, it was the cast that would make him stand out, but he felt visible – almost vulnerable – without a suit.

It was a blessing that Sandra was working that day; the shift would hopefully keep her from the telly – there was bound to be something on the news, even if just a snippet. The chances were small, but he didn't want to be caught in the background of some news reporter's camera.

"Questions?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Gabriel replied, trying to adjust the hat again. Somewhere in York, a hotel reservation with his name on it was drawing closer, but somehow seemed entirely unreal. Sandra had been delighted to get the confirmation, to scroll through the photographs of the suite he'd booked and insist he was spoiling her.

When this day was done, he hoped her memory of that would be enough.

* * *

><p>John had tea ready to go when Tricia and Jamie came upstairs. Tricia smirked as she took hers, shooting him a pointed look – John had bought them yesterday on the sly, three tacky tourist mugs to replace the regimental ones now at the bottom of the Thames with whatever other detritus and forgotten things were down there.<p>

The caffeine helped shake away the headache that was thankfully his only souvenir of the late night and the copious amounts of alcohol. Tricia looked a little worse for the wear, but John suspected that was jetlag, and Jamie was nothing but his normal cheerful self. Beneath the faint fatigue on Tricia's face, she looked happy as well, and John was glad to see it.

They curled up with their mugs, John in a chair, Jamie and Tricia on the sofa, letting the tea wake them up enough for conversation. It still felt like a dream, almost giddily so – or like he was small again, getting what he wanted for Christmas.

"Let's do a tour bus," Tricia said. "I checked the weather and it's nice all day. I've always wanted to do one. Lived in London my whole life and never bothered."

"Not your whole life," John pointed out, grinning against the rim of his mug when she rolled her eyes.

"Minus the bits overseas," she amended. "Pity they don't have them in Kabul or Bagdad, don't you think?"

"Terrible shame," John agreed and Jamie snorted silently, shaking his head.

"What do you think?" Tricia asked, putting a hand on Jamie's knee. He shrugged and nodded, a small smile tugging on his lips. Tricia arched an eyebrow enquiringly at John.

"Absolutely," he said. "We'll play tourist."

* * *

><p>She chose <em>Night Watch<em> because of the theme, and because it was an easy read, an old familiar that wouldn't provide undue distraction. Her clothing was like camouflage for the streets of London – casual enough not to draw attention, with just a hint of professionalism that would – along with the stolen badge – allow her to pass as a plains clothes police officer should anyone enquire.

Her kit was light, easy to carry in a handbag that hid its contents. She was well-equipped for the day – not just the tools she'd need, but some food and water, the tracking unit, and an extra mobile that Sherlock had provided her, one he'd secured himself.

Cheryl used it to send him a brief message, letting him know she was on her way. She caught her reflection in the entryway mirror before she left her flat, returning her own smile to herself.

* * *

><p>So easy to breathe now, a familiar push-pull in the lungs, sliding like water over steel, liked he'd emerged from rocky rapids expertly navigated to float – blissful, serene – on a calm liquid surface that reflected sunshine like the brilliance of diamonds.<p>

It was set, three places with walls like fortresses – one _was_ a fortress – keeping the city secure, holding what was precious and what was dangerous and what was powerful. Jim could feel it thrumming through his veins to the tips of his fingers, crackling energy but with a strange calmness that came from the certainty, from _knowing_, because it hadn't been enough to entrust it to other people, not this time.

Not with Sherlock.

A lesson learned, call it that, it was less risky but more transitory – he could move on now and would when the day was done and everything had been thrown wide open, all of that light that Sherlock had sought to avoid spilling in, all of the shadows he had so carefully cultivated flickering out, being swept aside, leaving no cover, no safety, no retreat.

A smile on his lips, fleeting, the urge to tug at cuffs a familiar one, tempered this time through lack of the suit – but this _was_ a suit, wasn't it? The right costume for the right place, blending in like he always did, unseen until it was too late. This time he _would_ be visible when it came down to it, but not for long, not once the spotlight was swung the other way and then it would be back to the familiar shadows – oh maybe not here but there were places – _oh yes there were places_ – to go where things to could be rebuilt.

Remodelled, not rebuilt. Important distinction – not all was lost, no. There were things Sherlock could not touch. Names, appearances, accounts – last resorts yes, but that was why one _had_ last resorts, hoping never to come calling on them but now it was necessary and power was part illusion after all, convincing others what they wanted to see, and Jim had never been a man without resources, his mind, the money, a man by his side with a sharp gaze and an even sharper temper.

He would be nothing when he went – another tourist in jeans and a t-shirt, a terrible souvenir cap that lied about his origins, made him from somewhere else; he would be everything when it was over and there was an empire in ashes around his feet _but not his own_ and Sherlock would be exposed, visible, vulnerable, not even that brother of his who was just as good as shadows, would be able to pull him back from this spotlight where the eyes of the press were always focused, where the Crown turned to him and called him guilty.

* * *

><p>"<em>Imagine, Gabriel, what you might do with an entire bank."<em>

And he'd done it. Quickly, silently, laying bare England's most secure financial fortress for Sherlock to waltz through electronically. He was unseen and unnoticed as he passed through accounts that had been emptied days ago, transferred all over the world. Outwardly, those same accounts had been maintained, showing no change or hint that they'd been breached, like a hollow wall that revealed itself when a touch crumbled it to dust.

While Gabriel had been opening the bank of England, Sherlock had been opening the rest – all the accounts contained on the memory stick. He was certain it wasn't everything – even Jim wasn't that arrogant – but it was more than enough. The diamonds that had been in Richard Brook's box had been sold or shipped for storage elsewhere. All but one bag. The weight of it rested in the pocket of his suit jacket, small and serious. He'd debated with himself about keeping it, but had decided to in the end.

Jim did love his dramatics.

There would be none today. Not in the way Jim wanted. The right information had found its way up the right chains, and three institutions were on alert, waiting for the clocks to creep toward eleven. There would be some confusion but there would be no panic, and the morning would slip into afternoon with almost no one being any the wiser.

Sherlock unlocked his mobile, unconsciously – automatically – opening the text program and selecting the message from John before he knew was he was doing. He stared at it, thumb hovering over the "call" button, breath caught in his chest and muscles tense.

_Bloody lunatic, of course I love you too. –JW_

He could hear John's voice in mind saying it, a pale reflection to the real thing. Just one quick call, something to carry with him today. John wouldn't thank him for it, but it was difficult not to be selfish after a lifetime of practice.

"'Morning, Sherlock."

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly at the sound of the warm, familiar voice, picturing John's smile, his casual, happy demeanour.

"Good morning, John."

"Finished that fiddly deal then?"

"Not yet," Sherlock replied, fingers tightening around the phone, relaxing only through deliberate effort. "Although I should be done by the end of the day. How's Doctor Remsen?"

"You could call her Tricia, you know," John said. "And she's fine, thanks. We're just on our way out for the day."

"Then I won't keep you," Sherlock replied. "Enjoy yourselves."

"Hold up a minute," John interjected quickly, and there were the faint sounds of movement, a quiet click in the background. "There. You don't get to hang up on me this time." The teasing words were tempered the sound of a smile in John's tone. "I love you. And, I know it's probably too much to ask, but don't work too hard."

"I will not promise what I cannot deliver," Sherlock said, keeping his voice calm and his tone light. "I love you, too, John."

There was a pause, not the kind that indicated John was waiting for him to hang up, but considering saying something, judging how to best deliver the words.

"Listen, Sherlock, you all right?"

"Of course," Sherlock murmured, but the lie tasted sour on his tongue. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," John replied. "You've been a bit off lately. Not quite yourself."

"And who then have I been?" Sherlock asked archly. "I did say I'd be occupied with this deal."

Another hesitation, this one shorter, John convincing himself to accept Sherlock's assurances on the matter.

"As long as you're sure," he said.

"When have you known me not to be?"

"Good point," John agreed, the smile coming back to his voice. "All right then, I'll see you soon."

* * *

><p>The silence in his office was tight, suffocating. Sherlock closed his eyes, fingers cutting into the edges of his phone, unwilling to relax this time.<p>

It was the work of a long minute to regain control over his breathing, to temper the urge to let it come too fast or not at all. The steadiness returned, but the weight that pressed in on his lungs was harder to ease.

The conversation was committed carefully and perfectly to memory, one more brilliant, faceted drop that seemed to shimmer, all the more precious because it was so tenuous.

Sherlock inhaled slowly. Exhaled.

Sentiment had no place, not today.

There was work to be done.

He plugged his phone into his computer and downloaded a short video. Satisfied that it played properly, he ensured everything was in order before calling for Gerald to take him to Bart's.

* * *

><p>John waited, smiling slightly, until his phone's screen darkened and then went blank, Sherlock's name winking out of existence. Giddiness bubbled up inside him, making him want to laugh and shout – and making him feel ridiculous at the same time.<p>

He was a thirty-seven year old former army captain and an experienced surgeon, for god's sake. Not a twelve year old girl with a crush.

He caught his own eye in the reflection from the ensuite mirror, the redness in his cheeks deepening when he realized he was blushing.

_Get it together, Watson_, he told himself firmly, sliding his phone into his back pocket.

He had a whole day ahead of him with two very good friends who would think nothing of teasing him mercilessly if he gave them the opportunity.

And he had a key to Sherlock's flat.

He'd spend the day out, but he would spend the night at Sherlock's The thought made him grin; he could make it a surprise for his partner at the end of a long and tiresome business deal. Sherlock's definition of "done today" could well bleed into the early hours of the following morning, but John didn't mind being woken up – in fact, he was already looking forward to it.

"Ready?" Tricia asked when he emerged from his bedroom.

"Ready," he agreed. "Let's get breakfast first."


	114. Chapter 114

The cab dropped him off so close that the short walk wasn't uncomfortable despite the cast, and Gabriel found himself glad for the ball cap now as the brim kept the worst of the sun from his eyes. Sunglasses would have been preferable, but he had to be easily recognized by the one man meant to notice him.

A quick scan of the crowd – mostly tourists and some pickpockets making a day's wages with nimble fingers and light feet. He caught one sizing him up; a raised eyebrow and pointed look was enough to send the young man – a boy, really – ducking away until he was lost in the press of people milling around, waiting pay the entry fee for the Tower, or snapping pictures for free.

_Jesus_, he thought, making a show of checking his watch as though he were waiting to meet someone.

That had been him ten years ago – or close enough as made no difference. It was jarring to realize that he'd been noted and observed the same way he'd spotted that boy.

Another day, maybe, he'd have gone after him, seen where that path had – but the pickpocket was a small fish and there was a bigger catch Gabriel had to make.

He queued up for a ticket, following the tide of other visitors through the gates as though he was in no particular hurry, hiding a sharp, searching gaze under a veneer of interest. He'd been here before – some school trip as a child and it had been one of Sherlock's training grounds, moulding a predisposition for blending in and for observation into an actual sophisticated talent.

The guards at the entrance weren't on alert. Not yet, not for this. Expressions edged with boredom, trying to cajole at watchfulness that hardly seemed necessary, selecting people for searches apparently at random (it wasn't; a quick minute revealed every eleventh adult – that was a predictable and potentially dangerous mistake).

Fifteen minutes.

Gabriel stayed outside, pretended to wander, and waited.

* * *

><p>A faceless mask because when you looked like anyone you could <em>be<em> anyone – he was about average height, officer, average weight, brown hair, brown eyes. No marks, no accessories, nothing distinguishing because part of playing the crowd was _being_ part of the crowd, moving through its masses unnoticed, unseen, unremarkable, another tourist with his headphones and souvenir cap and wasn't it amazing to be in London, to see all this history, haven't you always wanted to visit?

And it was so _safe_, the nanny behind the nanny state watching all of the cameras, electronic eyes everywhere, patterns and images and faces recorded to be played back at will, to be combed through looking for suspicion, but it was possible to avoid them – not by their blind spots, which they had, but which were too much trouble to duck all the time. By simply being _there_ as if _there _was the most normal place in the world.

As if the world _were_ normal. Safe. Secure.

As if the walls that held people in or held people out couldn't be breached – oh not by the thunder of explosions and the dust of demolitions, but by the quick insinuation through the cracks – electronic and human. One could be broken, the other could be bent. There was a language that ruled the world but it wasn't the one spoken here, that had come from this island, this place, and spread out to wedge itself into the furthest reaches of the world. It was more primitive, more sophisticated.

It was silent and now often not even physical. A palm greased, a bank account made slightly larger, a life made a touch more comfortable. He had paid it out, insurance and assurances, and he had the guarantee, checked and rechecked, all in place.

He would get his back, his money, his missing accounts, all the tallies Sherlock had stolen from him, all of those little numbers that had been on the now-blank pages of all of those documents. He would step into the light and force Sherlock into it with him, but when it was done, when his name was nothing more than a whispered memory, an uncertainty, a passing suspicion, the brilliance wouldn't have faded for a man whose name had been on the Yard and on the front page of every newspaper that same day.

This was still a game.

The final game. One final play. One final problem.

He had a ticket. Had five minutes. There was no Sebastian, not this time, not when some pieces needed to be kept in the shadow, away from the flashing lights of the press, as insurance if needed, a face that no one knew, no one recognized, that wouldn't be public. A face that could walk in anywhere, anytime – the way Jim was right now.

A movement near the door out of place, the wrong note in his symphony made him watch, re-evaluate, not stopping as he neared the door, one of the guards speaking on a walkie-talkie, the other still checking visitors, eyes skimming over each, lingering in all the inappropriate places and certainly his wife didn't know about that–

"Sorry, sir." A hand up suddenly, face like a closed door, subtle shift in movement to block the door, mirrored by the other and striking a flash of fear, of denial, of rage that he should feel those things, those _feelings_ and _reactions_ that were for ordinary people, that he'd walked away from, that he'd ensured wouldn't happen because it was _all in place_ and _no one_ had known–

"Security issues. No more admittance."

A siren's song. The alarm, three minutes early. Someone had got here before him but the question – _who?_ – couldn't be hear in the spreading of murmurs that rose in pitch, a serenade of confusion for the guards who had no answers but were shaking heads, guiding the herd, putting order into the mulling chaos of those who'd paid and were now being denied.

Jim turned. Slowly.

There had been a break somewhere. The line had been dropped. Severed.

_How._

Faces around him, uninformative, fleeting, bodies trying to find some order, somewhere to go, some explanation for these new facts that weren't facts but questions and he had one of his own – _how_–

A flash of familiar colour in the rainbow sea, standing out where it shouldn't have been. Beneath the white cap, above the casual, non-descript clothing, eyes he'd know anywhere, almost as familiar as his, almost as familiar as _Sherlock's_.

Too far away – oh too far, and a slow smile crossed Gabriel's face as the rage poured out, bubbling to the surface, and he tried to move but the crowd was too dense, too disorganized, and by the time he could take a step, the puppy had turned, lost himself in the chaos, gone.

* * *

><p>"The convenient thing about a prison is that there are guards and cells everywhere. And, since we're on lockdown as of– oh right now by the sounds of it, neither of you are going anywhere."<p>

* * *

><p>"Gentlemen. As fascinating as the disruption to our carefully timed schedules would be, the vault won't be opening today. Allow me to introduce you to these fine inspectors from Scotland Yard who will be taking you for a bit of a ride and introducing you to the rather creative list of charges you'll now be facing."<p>

* * *

><p>The image of rooftops, a sea of forgotten places sprouting up to touch the sky, the brilliant London sky – today of all days it was bright and clear. Unfeeling. Like diamonds. The upward spread of windows reflecting back the sun caught in a photographic moment of clarity and it was little more than a moment to narrow it down, to pin it to a place, to see and hear and feel and smell what was there, what the <em>man<em> standing there could feel.

_Two hours. Come alone. SH._

* * *

><p>Sherlock's eyes followed the movement of Gabriel's fingers as they adjusted his tie expertly, automatically. For a fraction of a moment, his mind overlay the image with that of a young man – a boy, really – in his first suit, at a symphony performance, all suspicion and resentful anger and unease.<p>

There was none of that now. Eight years had wiped that away as surely as it had accustomed him to the suits – much finer and better made than that first one. Sherlock refocused with little effort but with a flash irritation; now was not the time for memory or sentimentality.

"That's better," his associate murmured, more to himself. Sherlock gave a brief nod, not bothering with a reply that wasn't necessary.

"Are you sure about this?" Gabriel asked, exchanging a pointed look for Sherlock's quiet huff of disapproval.

"Of course. Everything's in place and–"

"I mean are _you_ sure, Sherlock," Gabriel interrupted. A brief pause, not long enough for Sherlock to speak before Gabriel continued, "You know, I've got plans for tomorrow. Maybe you should, too."

* * *

><p>It was an odd place to be, somewhere he was temporarily unnecessary. He'd been plenty of places where he wasn't meant to be – that was his job – and technically he wasn't supposed to be here. Molly Hooper gave him nervous looks whenever she saw him; the other pathologist he'd paid off was studiously trying to ignore them, thinking, no doubt, of the rather large sum of money that had appeared in his bank account this morning.<p>

Mike was mercifully keeping them occupied with his surgical preparations, and Gabriel was keeping in contact with everyone on the outside – relaying news from Tina that Jim's three targets had all been locked down before the planned crises could be triggered. Passing on Cheryl's updates. Passing back Sherlock's clipped instructions or questions to her.

"Fancy a sandwich?"

The question shook him from his reverie and Sherlock glanced Gabriel's way with a cool, calculated movement. He held his associate's gaze for a long moment, then gave an assenting nod, waving a hand dismissively.

"Yes, all right. Don't get caught."

With a roll of his eyes, Gabriel was gone, leaving Sherlock in the silence of the morgue that was broken only by the distant sound of Mike talking with the pathologists.

He propped his legs on the desk, crossed at the ankles, leaning back slightly in the chair. The wait was grating, but it gave Jim time to get people into position, to plan hurriedly for a fall Sherlock didn't intend to take. Time would give Jim back some sense of control – Sherlock had no desire to confront Jim at his maddest, particularly not if he were armed with a gun and a sniper.

The sound of his phone startled him, an unexpected interruption in the stillness. His people knew to work through Gabriel and Tina today; process of elimination narrowed the caller down to a very limited number of people.

A picture of the Tower from an odd elevation and distance, the scene caught with crowds that had been ushered out of the now closed gates, the very top of a metal bar across the bottom of the frame, glinting in the light from the sun.

John's name on the screen alleviated any worries about the subject of the photograph – except a dull thrum of anxiety Sherlock felt in the bottom of his lungs at the unwelcome knowledge that John was right now where Jim had been a mere hour ago, intent on making a very symbolic statement that would have forced both of them into the public eye.

_Ever been on one of these tour buses? Highly educational – you'd like it. They've got the Tower closed for some security thing but we're going to loop round to the Palace and take a tour._

A pause, merely the space of the breath in which the urge to respond won out. It was selfish to want this last contact – but no one had ever accused him of being otherwise.

_If you see the Royal Family, pass on Irene's best wishes. – SH._

_Ha,_ John replied. _They'd be thrilled. I'll steal you an ashtray._

_Mycroft currently owes me a favour. Don't make me call it in. – SH._

_We'll be on our best behaviour. Promise._

_I'm concerned about the 'best behaviour' of three former soldiers playing tourist in their own city. Please stay out of trouble. – SH._

_You're a fine one to talk. :) I will if you will._

_I will do my best. – SH._


	115. Chapter 115

The sharpness of it all caught him off guard. The cool slide of the breeze over exposed skin. The brilliant glare of the sun, glinting as it bounced off of distant windows. The individual purr of vehicles melding into one low drone. The pervasive scent of petrol, concrete, and dust. The vividness of colour – blue sky, red brick, grey concrete. Tiny details leapt off surfaces into his mind until he felt dizzy with the overload and closed his eyes, seeking a refuge from the sensory chaos.

_Is this always how it goes?_ Sherlock wondered. Was it how John remembered the moment he'd been shot – the mind wanting to record all the data it could in those final moments?

Except they hadn't been final moments. And John hadn't known it was coming.

He extricated a cigarette from the package, lit it, inhaled. The tang was more acrid, the scent more pungent. Even this, such an old habit – one he knew he really should give up – was heightened. More precious. More _real_.

The deep breathing helped, grounded him in a calm center. Sherlock dropped the butt, crushing it beneath the sole of his shoe, a habit Gabriel had forced him to change, but it scarcely mattered now. A hand slid into his pocket, long fingers wrapping around the cool, smooth surface of his phone. In the bright light, it was harder to see the photograph John had sent; even cupping his other hand for shade left details washed out.

_Bloody lunatic, of course I love you too. –JW_

He could hear John's voice saying the words because he _had_ said them, a memory so precious that Sherlock had wrapped it carefully and stowed it away where only he could find it, where no one else would be able to read its reflection in his face or in some fleeting expression in his eyes.

He gave himself a moment – too brief, too ephemeral – before switching between programs, leaving this new one open and running, and dropping his phone nimbly back into his jacket pocket.

* * *

><p>The sound of footsteps with a faint echo, the metallic sigh of a door being opened, sucking the silence of the stairwell with it, a clang and a low vibration he felt in his feet as it clanged shut again, such a close, discordant noise against the distant murmur of the city below and around them.<p>

Each movement screamed feigned nonchalance, hands in pockets, a small smirk around the edges of the lips, a faint swagger in the steps – but there were hints, more like broadcasts, giving Jim away. Tightness around the eyes. Tautness of the muscles and tendons running down his neck. The flex of fingers in his pockets, brief outlines against the fine fabric of his suit trousers.

The glint in his eyes that wasn't from catching the sun but from inside – rage, barely contained, flowing around him, shouting the presence he had always kept so well hidden, giving him away even as he tried to restrain it, tried to hide it.

Such a good mask, that rage. Beneath that, fear.

Or something deeper.

Terror.

There were wild animals like that – caught and confined to cages, left to pace a space barely bigger than themselves, turning the idea of freedom over and over in their minds until they snapped and tore at those who had taken them and trained them, fighting the only way they knew how.

Jim wouldn't let himself – not yet. It had been his plan, to break all the bars they had each so carefully constructed around themselves, to drag Sherlock down with him. The impulse wasn't for freedom denied. It couldn't be given a logical grounding because it had none; it was madness, pure and simple, and where a caged animal's actions could be predicted, could be understood, there was nothing about Jim that could be assumed.

Not now.

Not like this.

The sudden craving for another cigarette made Sherlock smile, a small, wry twitch of the lips that he allowed to be misread. A moment of gloating, a moment in which Jim's powerlessness battled with triumph – a sign of smugness from Sherlock that was little more than a misplaced pang of addiction.

"You always wanted to play, didn't you, Jim?" Sherlock said, spreading his hands lightly, nothing but smooth grace behind his movements. "Always wanted a _game_ from me. Something to chase away the boredom." He paused, smile growing. "Are you bored now?"

* * *

><p>The rush of blood like rapids over rocks as if he were submersed in it but it wasn't enough to cut out the noise, the smooth sounds of a polished voice in which smugness sat like a contented cat just out of reach, lofty and superior. His hands wanted to clench to wipe the self-satisfied expression from that face that was all pale angles and monochromatic contrast and <em>gloating.<em>

_Patience, patience_, he told himself. Like ice. Like diamonds. Reflecting everything, turning it back so that which was underneath couldn't be seen, not even a glimpse. Just a hint, that was all _he_ would have needed, so Jim wouldn't give it to him. There were rules now and they weren't _his_ rules but oh he would make them his again because yes, he had wanted a game but _his own_ game, not Sherlock's, because the rules were meant to be made for other people to follow while he danced, changing them at will, watching as they all struggled to keep up, to understand, to _win_.

Patience was a virtue, they said, but _they_ were wrong. It was a skill that had to be honed, trained, cultivated, and when it was most needed it could flow away unless he _held on_ because this was only another move in the game – not the last move as he'd thought but the realization suddenly made the rushing blood sing, the idea that it _wasn't_ over, that boredom _wasn't_ coming. Because oh no, he wasn't bored, suddenly, he wasn't playing the game Sherlock wanted him to because he _didn't have to_ – not anymore, not ever. The tallies were gone so there would be other ways of keeping score and he'd find them, just see if he didn't and he would wipe that smirk away without contact, with nothing more than exhalation–

"Sherlock." Tasted it, _savoured_ it, that one word, the distraction that had been holding off the tedium for the last eleven years, the one, the _one_ opponent who met him, who stood at his level, who _didn't_ just dance, and Jim laughed, _whirled_, with the sudden joy of it, watching confusion spread over angelic features – and who was on the side of the angels here? No one – they were abandoned, bereft, _alone._

_But he wasn't_.

"I'm not playing your game."

* * *

><p>The sudden movement made him tense, the abrupt spin forced him half a step back – not entirely as a retreat, but to put more safe distance between them. Jim stopped, grinning, gleeful, eyes glinting in a way that could have been mirth, but Sherlock knew him well enough. Could see the imbalance there, bubbling to the surface, uncapped – and he thought he'd begun to see its full extent before this, he'd been wrong.<p>

"What do you mean?"

A hand over Jim's heart then extended in a smooth movement, and Sherlock looked down at the tiny wavering red dot against the dark fabric of his suit jacket.

Laughter that was more than edged with madness now, it _was_ madness, and there was a singsong lilt to Jim's voice that couldn't be called a tune because it was too brittle, too uneven.

"I didn't come alone."

* * *

><p>Frozen in place, like ice, like a statue. Fine marble, elegantly wrought in even finer fabrics marred only by the tiny point of light on his chest, right over the heart that had brought him <em>here,<em> that had made him choose _this_ place. The laser sight was smaller, better contained, brighter than blood. A warning of what would come if he tried anything _stupid_.

"Sentiment," Jim purred, and he could move now, like water shifting over rocks but no longer uncontrolled rapids, everything was falling away, falling into place – _falling_. "Always the weakness, Sherlock. And you owe me a fall."

"Do I?" Eyebrow arched, gaze cool but there – _there_ it was, the flicker of uncertainty, the sudden apprehension that there was a _game_ and there was a _plan_ but it wasn't _his_, that could all be taken as easily as Sherlock had taken what was Jim's because that was how the game was played and the score was an ever-shifting thing, kept the game going, kept things _interesting._

"Oh, your brother's agent was brilliant on the news, I admit. The iceman – he never gives away anything he doesn't want to, does he? What must that have been like growing up, never quite right, never quite respected?"

The flicker again, darker this time, he'd hit a mark. Sentiment. Laughter like silver because even now, _even now_ there was a reaction, a familial connection that couldn't be severed, should have been left behind long ago but Sherlock– _Sherlock _had always been given to it, putting down roots, even shallow ones, finding a place here, a person there, turning familiarity into affection into _love_.

"But he wasn't behind that. He's smarter than you," the flare again, even brighter, "but he didn't know about McKinney or _The_ _Falls_. A favour for a favourite brother, I wonder? The price to pay for sentiment – and here. We. Are."

Blue sky swirled above him, and it felt good to move, to _really_ move with the breeze as it turned him or he turned it, so hard to tell but the laughter bubbled up again and he moved without tension now, like a cat, prowling, and Sherlock was caught with the tiny red eye on his chest, grey eyes following Jim's movements, unmissed faint shudder running up his neck when he could no longer see Jim. Goose bumps, hair standing on end – not just from the breeze but ages old instinct warning of _danger_ and the word made him smile because Sherlock had walked right into that the first time, hadn't he? All unawares, having heard whispers but not knowing their source or their name.

And he_– he_ had known because the shadows weren't as deep around Sherlock and never had been – he could take what he wanted, but it was like holding water, it couldn't be kept, and the tighter he held, the more would drain away.

"And isn't it _nice_? The place where your little doctor trained before he went off to get himself shot and land himself right in your bed. _Boring_!" A sudden hiss, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin on the back of the neck, muscles tensing, trying to relax, unable to deny the shudder that coursed down his spine.

"_Boring_. You've always chosen to be _so boring_."

"You've lost, Jim. Is that boring?" A feint – would have been a good one too, a minute ago, five minutes ago, before it had all become clear, before he'd put everything together, the lonely roof, the sentiment, the one thing Sherlock had _missed_ that would cost him the game he was never meant to win anyway, because it wasn't _his_ gameand they weren't his _rules_ and he had ever been more than a puppet dancing on strings to a tune he couldn't really hear.

"I had high hopes for you, Sherlock, I really did. But you've let me down. Oh it was fun for a while, but now… _now you're getting my way_. You're breaking all the _rules_ and I really, _really _don't like that."

"Which rules?"

"Which rules?" Spat, angry, a sudden red flare that made it hard to see, but it had to fade, and there was nothing but Sherlock's eyes now, grey, bright, hiding the fear that was lurking beneath, that was a shadow growing even in the dazzling light of the sun as the little dot played over the weak heart that had led him here, that had blinded him to the game he'd been trying to play, that distracted him, that _took him away_.

"_My rules!"_

But there– there it was again, and how could it have been because Jim wasn't the one trapped, wasn't standing still to avoid death that was coming for him anyway, at the snap of the fingers or wave of the hand or nod of the head – and Sherlock was smiling, lips curling upward, teasing, taunting, waking the snake coiled in Jim's stomach again, the fear that shouldn't have been, that had been thrown onto Sherlock, vanished–

"You didn't come alone? Neither did I."

* * *

><p>Uneven footfalls and it made sense even before Jim had turned, and he was laughing at the realization even in the face of the gun aimed at him, his gaze travelling along its gleaming metallic length to the eyes behind it, the green eyes he'd seen that morning, mocking him, darker now, serious under the weight of the task, but it didn't <em>matter<em> and neither of them _knew_.

"Puppy! So nice to see you! Sentiment, Sherlock, didn't I say? Is your little bitch down there today, puppy? Is she safe? Does she know what you do, holding a gun to a man's heart?"

"You've _lost_, Jim," Sherlock said.

"_I'm not playing your game!"_

An eyebrow cocked at him, so arrogant so suddenly, without foundation, so smug, so sure, and fists itched again to wipe the expression that had _no right_ to be there but patience, patience, he reminded himself because not knowing was part of _his_ game and victory would taste all the sweeter drawn out, anticipated, _desired_, and wasn't this glorious? The puppy, the gun, the shot he could take but wouldn't because there were patches of light now, on both of them, tiny circles darting and chasing each other as distant, unseen hands moved slightly in response to nervous stimuli, unfelt changes in air pressure, small twitches of the skin and hairs.

"You thought it was just the one." A whisper, laughter, glee that could be mastered now, could be enjoyed, could be _savoured_ like a fine wine, but this was the taste of blood, the taste of _winning._

"No," Sherlock said. "Of course I didn't."

* * *

><p>The faint noise behind him had to have been deliberately made, because Sebastian had heard nothing until it was right there, making the hairs of the back of his neck stand up even as adrenaline shot through his system – uselessly, chased by the bright and brittle pain in his skull just behind his ear.<p>

"I did tell you that you should have run," a familiar voice murmured before the blinding light was mercifully extinguished by darkness.

* * *

><p>Blinking out, one by one, like lives extinguished and maybe they <em>were<em> lives extinguished, lives who didn't matter except for in the service of saving _his_ and they were gone now, almost there if he blinked and convinced himself to look again, that eyes and brain were deceptive, liars, unworthy of reality, but no–

_No_.

* * *

><p>"Good man, there you go. Just a little something to keep you well behaved on the walk over."<p>

A sharp pinprick in his neck, the cool slide of _something_ into his body. The instinct to struggle was useless – a few minutes was all she'd needed to bind him. Sebastian managed a wry grin – in another lifetime, they could have ruled the world.

"Stupid," he managed through thick lips. "I'm not alone."

"Oh, neither am I," Cheryl agreed over the sounds of his rifle being dismantled and _how the hell had she managed to track him?_ "But you are now. I got here first."

* * *

><p>But it was still there, the money Sherlock hadn't known about and didn't yet, the money he'd never know about because there <em>would <em>be no walking away from this. Not from Sherlock. Not from the puppy. Not from any of them, because what couldn't be found couldn't be taken and there were ways, _oh there were ways_, back ways he'd never shown to anyone, where no one could follow, where he'd never be tracked and this was _his_ game, they were _his _rules and no one,_ no one_ was going to take it from him.

"Are you going to tell me about the accounts at the Bank of England I didn't know about?" Sherlock asked and it wasn't fear this time, it wasn't terror, it was deeper, it made no sense, it stopped his heart, froze his nerves down to each digit, to each follicle, but it wasn't _real_ because he'd made certain, he knew, _oh he knew_–

"I'd advise against moving, I really would." So assured, so self-satisfied, so smooth that voice – _that voice_ – and the melody of it made him rage, made the lines of the edges stand out starkly and all he had to do was _move_ and Sherlock would go with him, _one last fall_–

"Because Gabriel has a record of being able to incapacitate someone even after being shot himself. Without that handicap, he's not going to miss."

"There are no accounts." A lie that he could taste like blood, bitter metallic tang, the rush of heat leaving only cold behind, denial as the blue sky swirled above him but this time it wasn't moving, nothing was moving – not him, not the puppy, not Sherlock – but everything had _shifted_ like sands to reveal nothing below and with nothing, nothing, _nothing_ all he could _do_ was fall without falling, rooted, the edge so close but so far and there was a precipice even with solid ground beneath his feet.

"It _was_ very clever. Such an elegant simplicity, really, because everyone would have been scrambling to know how you did it, but it wouldn't have been you, would it? My name on Scotland Yard, so well known to those who really ought to know it. Who would you have been, Jim? Richard Brook, maybe?"

A smile, a full one, feral, predatory, too bright even in the stark sunshine.

"A world of locked doors. Three of them. But," hand in a pocket in a smooth move but not a gun, he wasn't armed, hands clean like Jim's always were, leaving the dirty work to the puppy, something small and dark and velvet between those long, sure fingers, "in a world of locked doors, the man with the key is king."

Tiny velvet bag tipped, glittering droplets of pressurized carbon spilling like common glass but it wasn't that which caught the sun but the key, the tiny key that had guarded the last of it, the information Sherlock hadn't had, the accounts that had still been standing, the one thing he'd had and it couldn't be gone it _couldn't_–

"Pity, though," Sherlock's voice through the haze of red, the incomprehension, the _no no no_, "I would have liked to have seen you in a crown."

* * *

><p><em>No words<em> and the clang of the door in the stillness and the sunlight and the puppy didn't flinch or look away and Sherlock only smiled, warmly, welcoming, making him turn to see _Sebastian_ – and relief that was cruel in its brief life and sudden death and he wanted to shout but couldn't because there was the girl with the gun, the gun pressed against Sebastian's jaw, digging in, uncomfortable, making muscles in his throat work as he swallowed like they had so many times before but without the power this time.

"They were elated to meet Mister Brook after all these years." A phone extended toward him, nothing offered except the view, a video feed of security cameras and the gleaming floors and columns of a bank – of _the_ bank – and the president shaking Sherlock's hand, all deference and delight and it _had to be_ fake but it wasn't and there was a jump before Sherlock appeared again, alone in the room lined with silent boxes that looked down upon him but he was looking up at the camera, holding the tiny thumb drive in one hand, giving a small smile to his unseen audience.

"And I can assure you, he'll be very happy to continue doing business with them."

Nothing _nothing _but the sucking silence, the vacuum, the empty sound of everything draining except it had already gone, and he hadn't known, and there were no more rules, not his rules, _nothing_ except Sebastian – _except Sebastian_ and they'd brought him up, this bargaining chip so there was _something _oh yes and Jim didn't know where it was but he clung to that realization like a drowning man grasping a lifeline, mind racing to stay one step ahead to work out the angles and distances and speeds because there would _be_ a fall and not just his, not _alone_, he never went _alone–_

"We're done here."

* * *

><p>Silence shattered deafening blood splatter on the girl with the gun and on him – <em>Westwood<em> – faint sound of exertion sliding to the ground and he was gone and _it_ was gone nothing left with the last piece taken out even though it lay right there blank eyes staring at the sky not responding to the sounds of fury– of yelling– _of his own bloody name–_

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!"<p>

A shouted warning but he was already going for his gun, using the moment of shock to displace everything. Each movement like frozen frames, hands coming up defensively, time slowing to a crawl, the sudden rush of blood and adrenaline in his ears–

The second deafening _crack_ and bright white heat that tore through his left shoulder, gun falling from suddenly numb and unresponsive fingers, mind stunned into immobility for a moment that seemed to hang, to go on forever, until he realized he was falling, feet no longer holding him, nothing to catch him but the air and the swirl of blue sky spinning above him.


	116. Chapter 116

No one came now. No visitors, no audience. Once it had been different – he'd had _guests_ who came to see, came to taunt, came to watch the man in the cage. The puppy had come to chat. He liked to chat, walking back and forth, hands running along the bars, so confident he wouldn't be caught and he never was because what would it mean? He'd tried once, hadn't been able to get close in time, a step back and the puppy was out of reach, so close but he couldn't touch, not reaching out, not grasping, but seeing an image of himself doing it, a pale reflection in his imagination but he wouldn't because it would be a knowing smile, it would be winning only not for him.

But the puppy was gone – he'd come one final time, hard to say when, yesterday or the year before, said he wasn't coming back. Puppies of his own now. Priorities.

The Frenchman had come once, low murmured tones all smooth and foreign and dark eyes in the darkness. He'd been inside, so close that he could touch – he wasn't allowed to touch, but it was hard to remember sometimes and he'd wanted to, and he did but when he reached out the Frenchman wasn't there, gone, vanished, faded, maybe never been. But he'd been standing with Sherlock, dark and light, the pair he'd tried to break but it wasn't him, no, no, he hadn't won stuck down here, hadn't won it walking free up there either, it had been the little doctor who _never_ came but they were standing together and the doctor hadn't lost and the Frenchman was gone and had maybe never been.

Now it was only Sherlock– Sherlock with his soft voice and polished accent and subtle cologne and tailored suits and gentle fingers– Sherlock– _Sherlock_–

He wasn't allowed to touch anyone, anything, none of the others that breathed in this space but when he tried to it was only him, fingers on a face that felt unfamiliar, too rough, too dirty, must be someone else but who? because there was no one else here except for the statues, unmoving with guns, too far too touch, so cold anyway, so distant, and _Sherlock_–

Sherlock _was_ allowed to touch and so were the statues-turned-guards if Sherlock said, hands cuffed to the bars behind him until the right was as numb as the left always was now – or always had been, so hard to tell, because he could remember _something_ before the tingling lack of sensation that stole down his arm from shoulder to fingertips…

But he was bound so Sherlock could be inside with the door open or closed depending on his words but even open he was cuffed to the bars and he shuffled his feet in that direction, always watching but he never tried because if _he_ left he would be lost, stumbling in the darkness that wasn't always dark, and Sherlock would never come back. That thought made his chest so tight he couldn't breathe, and he'd turn away until Sherlock talked him into looking back except when there was no Sherlock, and then he only breathed when he couldn't not anymore. Disappointing body, broken down, demanding.

The statues had come to life once and beat him until he'd been laughing at the taste of his own blood, and even now the day after or the year after, he worried the space where he had one tooth or another missing and the hole was like the gunshots that had ripped through his ears and _that_ had been Sherlock–

Cold precision, no anger, no comments, and the new statues knew not to touch unless told to, unless they wanted the hot bullets of their own, but there was never that noise again, not where he could hear it but sometimes he heard it in his dreams always different, never this, and he remembered knowing a man who shot like that, cold precision, but he couldn't remember the name. He remembered knots and a voice and being allowed to talk, being allowed to _touch_– no, not allowed, that meant permission and he'd made the decisions when he wanted to, not often – no, always made the decisions but didn't always make the decision to touch and he had no name this memory of knots and a voice but he'd been there and cold and red and then– nothing.

It was a lie anyway, it had never happened, he'd always been here in this darkness that wasn't always dark with the bars around him and the ghost of the Frenchman once and the puppy who had his own puppies now and _Sherlock_–

Who was allowed to touch him and did and he never, ever, _ever_ did anything because the touch might be taken away and if they never fed him or let him sleep it wouldn't matter because it wasn't what he wanted, he wanted this–

Smooth fingers on his face that made his head fall back and his eyes close. The scrape of a blade across his throat and he could just jerk his head down and feel the bite and the blood that he'd tasted once when they'd left a little hole in his mouth, but he never did because if he did that then there wouldn't be anymore of this and he wanted so much more but he was patient – he could be patient, he waited all the time here and Sherlock came and brought the razor and the foam and worked _oh-so-slowly_ and it was exquisite and he would remember to breathe but it was annoying, distracting him from the sensation.

There were hands in his hair sometimes, flesh and electric, the buzz in his ears and the vibrations, and his head would be cool and stop itching and there was – more often – a flannel on his face, warm, moving in smooth, thorough strokes, the sound of dipping water and wringing, droplets returning home before the sensation came again, again, again, and then his hands, palms, backs, fingers. The small bite of a clipper and the rasp of a file and he'd flex his hands – one at a time, only ever one at a time, the other bound to the bars and he was glad to let it be. Sherlock would leave him the water and the flannel and a new suit – Westwood, he could smooth his hands down the breast and feel the wool against clean skin, soft hands – Sherlock never did the rest, just his face, hair, hands, but it was good enough, it was _perfect_–

And he wasn't always cuffed now, if he held himself still and behaved he could sit and Sherlock would sit with him and talk. Sometimes he heard the echoes of the Frenchman's voice, but they weren't real, just fading into the concrete walls, and Sherlock's voice buried them, always better, and he listened to every word, drinking it down like the water they brought him.

"I have something for you."

Click of metal on concrete and when he reached for it, Sherlock was gone – just left or days ago but the metal was cool against his skin – his clean skin, manicured nails, he could feel them even when the darkness was dark and he couldn't see.

He _remembered_.

The voice came back but it had a name, and he laughed when he heard it, cradling the metal in his hands against his body, taking care, spreading warmth into it.

_Sebastian_.

He hummed and sang under his breath and remembered doing that too – so long ago or just now and it made no difference but he remembered _Sebastian_ and he wasn't alone anymore, not ever again.

Sebastian talked to him, voice in the darkness that wasn't always dark, voice the statues with their stone ears and stonier faces didn't hear but he heard it and that was all that mattered. It was the same voice, so familiar, long ago conversations coming back around and singing–

He would sing to Sebastian and teach him– Sebastian had never sung before, didn't know if he could, bad habit for an assassin – he laughed because being an assassin was the bad habit but Sebastian was _his_ bad habit – he once would have said _Sherlock_ but Sherlock wasn't bad, he was perfect, wonderful–

He came to visit again with the razor and the flannel but never spoke to Sebastian or of him and it was better that way because this was about _them_ not Sebastian and he closed his eyes and let the blade caress his skin and reminded his hands not to touch but they were bound anyway and he flexed his fingers. If he just waited, he'd be allowed to touch and he could tell Sebastian all about it – the sensation beneath his fingertips, the difference in temperature he could trace, the changes in texture – and he could _imagine_ them so well that he didn't need to touch, not really, but he wanted to, to see if he was right, but he could wait, he could wait–

Sebastian talked to him more and more, a quiet steady voice filling up the little spaces so whatever echoes were left over faded away. He never spoke when Sherlock was there but when he left as though there had been no break in the conversation and he spoke of things they could both remember, oh the past, the past, there had been days not in this darkness that wasn't always dark with his stone statues and his metal bars–

They were like a dream but he'd cradle Sebastian in his hands and listen because dreams were real sometimes and when he slept he could see London and breathe its air and walk its streets and no dream was ever _this real_ so Sebastian must be right and _there was no possibility of Sebastian being wrong_– not now– not ever–

Except he was – one of them was – because he remembered Sebastian being gone in a burst of noise and blood and shock but Sebastian was _right here_, he was holding him, lending warmth to a cold body that had never been cold before, so this was confusing. He remembered warmth– _heat_ on the times he'd sought it, but he didn't want that now; he just wanted Sebastian to talk to him and so he did until he ran out of memories, ran up against this moment and what was there left to say?

The cage was small and the guards now like ice and he paced with Sebastian in his hand until Sherlock came and soothed him with the razor and the flannel but Sebastian started whispering through that, too, so low that Sherlock couldn't hear him but he could and it was always the same words, coming from nowhere, coming from running out of memories. Even if he went back again and again and spoke to Sebastian about the past, Sebastian would listen and then give him the same words, the new words, and he stopped pacing the cell to sit where he sat when Sherlock came and hold Sebastian and try _not_ to remember the walking, the air, the noise–

The Frenchman, the girl with the gun, the puppy, the Woman, the doctor– _The Game_. Oh yes, he remembered the game now and the _thrill_ in his lungs and his veins and he gasped for air because he could _remember_ the way it felt and the victory, the triumph, the taste of it and _Sherlock coming out to play_ and–

How _fun_ it had all been and now he had a new word for here – not cell, not bars, not statues_– boredom._

And he couldn't breathe when he found the word because it was written in his lungs and dissolved into the air and the suits didn't matter or the pacing or the food they brought him– _he was trapped_.

And Sherlock was– Sherlock was _perfect_ with his smooth, cool hands and his voice and his smell and he couldn't be angry when Sherlock was there, touching him, razor scraping across roughened skin that smoothed under its bite– but it was _Sherlock_–

Sherlock who had brought him this – and Sebastian, Sherlock had brought him Sebastian – but it wasn't _right_, this wasn't part of the game, it was a trap and he saw himself slamming into the bars and heard himself yelling while Sebastian stayed silent and they touched him again – no blood this time but he felt the concrete against a smooth cheek and a pull on his arms and a jab in his neck and then nothing–

Sherlock was angry when he came back, wouldn't touch, wouldn't use the razor or the flannel, spoke to him tersely and he hung his head and nodded and wouldn't do it again but when Sherlock was gone he did, over and over and over, because it wasn't meant to be like _this. This wasn't the game._

He was trapped, he could feel it, each breath tightening the space around him until he couldn't move, pinned where he was, cradling Sebastian to his chest like a terrified child – _he wasn't a child, this was not him, Sherlock had done this _– not moving for fear of not being able to move and this suffocating _silence_ in which Sebastian spoke and told him how to get out.

He didn't believe it at first – Sebastian was a liar, they were all liars, Sherlock worst of all, until he came with the razor and the flannel and then he was perfect again and he was quiet and everything was fine until Sherlock had gone away again and then it came back like a rushing flood, like the Thames overflowing its banks into his body so he could not breathe–

But Sebastian knew what to do and told him again, and he listened without wanting to, ignoring it, but Sebastian told him once more, and then again, and he lost track of how many times, staring at the cell door, not seeing the guards who weren't stone or ice but something older and colder and not even real anyhow.

Sebastian was right, he'd always been right, he'd never lied. Not to him – he was a liar to everyone else but not to him and he was right and now it was dark and Sherlock was gone and had _stolen_ the game and everything else and he could just step out, walk away, and so he held Sebastian so very carefully, no longer ever cold, stroking him gently, just listening to the voice that had never tried to sing, even here in the darkness. Could he sing? Could he try? Just this one time?

So Sebastian did and he smiled, listening to the song the guards couldn't hear, never even knew was real. He listened for a while, a minute, an hour, a day, it didn't matter, Sebastian sang until he said 'hush' and he went silent and thought about the game and Sherlock and asked Sebastian what to do and Sebastian told him again.

Jim smiled, tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.


	117. Acknowledgements and thanks

Now that _If It Were Otherwise_ is (finally) finished, I'd like to thank some people for their contributions.

First, everyone who had stuck with reading the story beginning to end. Even if you didn't start reading when I started writing (2 years ago), if you read the whole thing, then I thank you sincerely because it's a long story, and I really hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for giving it a chance, and to everyone who dropped me a review at any point, thank you for your comments and your support.

I would like to thank three people specifically:

MustangWoman who read the first four chapters and encouraged me to publish them. I had no idea when I began that it would take 2 years to complete and be 116 chapters long, but without her encouragement, this would never have seen the light of day.

double-negative means yes for the fabulous art she's done for the story. This may seem strange, but I'm not a very visually imaginative person. I can't picture things in my head that I have no visual basis for (I have no firm idea of what most of my OCs look like), and she's taken the words and made them into images. I wish I had a even quarter of her talent, and I thank her for bringing some of those images to life for me to see.

And my beta and friend, AGirloftheSouth. She doesn't believe me when I say the story wouldn't have been finished without her, but it's true. This wasn't something I could do alone, and without someone to bounce ideas off of and to give me direction when I had none, I could never have come this far.

Thank you, everyone. This has been a hell of an adventure. I've loved (almost) every minute of it, and I hope you have too.


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